HE WHO FIGHTS (Nathaniel Rane Book 1)

by Mike Morris

  "It's not like that," whispered Rane. But he knew it was.

  "You stupid fool. You stupid, stupid fool. Why’d you do it?"

  "Because we had no other choice."

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Kara shook her head. "Didn't you think I had a right to know? That my husband had taken half his soul and put it in a bloody sword? Using some devil magic?" Kara drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them as the tears fell freely. "What about the baby? Will this... magic effect the baby?"

  There it was — the question he'd never dared ask. The question he didn't know the answer to. Kara saw the truth in his eyes and shook her head in dismay.

  "I'm so sorry." Rane tried to put his arms around her. Kara flinched from him, but then her shoulders sagged and she sank into his embrace. He held her while she sobbed, hating himself for hurting her.

  Eventually she stopped, and wiped her eyes. She looked up at him, red-faced and bleary, but already he could see her pulling herself together, her vulnerability fading. "I swear by Odason himself, if there's something wrong with my baby because of what you did, I'll kill you. Do you understand? I love you, Nathaniel, but I had a right to know about this. Having a child while you're riddled with magic was a choice we should’ve made together."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  She stood up, scrubbing the last of her tears away with the back of her hand. "We can't stay here. We need to stick to the plan. Go to Candra, find Marcus, warn him too. Hopefully no one's gone after him yet. Find someway to reverse the magic."

  “I don’t know if the magic can be reversed.”

  “What about this Babayon? Where’s he? If he did this to you, he can undo it.”

  “I’ve no idea where we’d find him. The last I saw of Babayon was on the Great Plains.”

  “At the last battle?”

  Rane took a deep breath. Let everything come out. “It wasn’t a battle. We didn’t even fight them. Babayon used more magic, set fire to the Plains. Burned them all.” Rane shook his head. “How we cheered. We’d won the war but we’d become as bad as the enemy we fought.”

  “No one said you’d used magic.”

  “How could we? We’re taught from the time we can talk that magic is wrong. Cursed. Odason’s priests had only become more powerful since the war with the Rastaks. They would’ve sent the Inquisition after us without hesitation. It had to be a secret.”

  “The Rastaks were evil, Nathaniel. They deserved it. They’d have done worse to us if the positions had been reversed.”

  “That’s the argument everyone used to justify it. But as we watched the fires burn for days and days, long after there was nothing left to feed the flames, it didn’t feel like the right thing.”

  “And Babayon?”

  “Just disappeared one morning. No one saw him leave or knew where he went.”

  “But a magician that powerful can’t stay hidden. Someone must know…”

  They both heard the horses. Galloping hard. In his mind's eye, Rane could see them racing up the hill, along the dirt road that led to their house and only their house. Kicking up dirt and dust behind them, the land dry from a long summer.

  "Nathaniel..." said Kara.

  "It's okay," said Rane as he got to his feet. He pulled on his trousers, laced them up quickly and found his boots. Perhaps if it had been only one rider, he could've believed it was a messenger or someone lost and looking for a way back to civilisation. But only bad news required company. Only trouble travelled in a pack. Only danger travelled so fast.

  "What's going on?"

  He held out a hand. "Stay in the house."

  Of course, there was still a chance his visitors came in peace.

  He almost laughed at that. The war had taught him the folly of such wishful thinking. A fact he should've remembered earlier. Men like him didn't have their dreams come true. With one last glance back at Kara, he walked outside, bare-chested and covered in dried blood, to greet his unwelcome visitors. The sun shone down on his back, throwing his shadow along the ground ahead of him.

  That voice in his head was loud, bold, excited, urging him to draw Kibon from its sheath and be ready for whoever came calling. It sang with joy at the thought of violence and death. It knew its time was near.

  Seven horsemen appeared a heartbeat later. They slowed when they saw him and brought their horses in at a trot. Rane recognised all of them from the previous day; the bounty hunters looking to collect ten thousand gold pieces. With them was Jeriah Miller'son, Samuel's eldest. The boy was only a few years into his teens, too young to have been drafted during the war, but it was hard to call him a kid now. Trouble was he was at that awkward age where he had the body of a man but the mind of a child still. A dangerous age if Rane remembered rightly. The boy had obviously been the one who'd led the bounty hunters to his house. Stupid child.

  They stopped their horses a few yards from him.

  "What're you doing here, boys?" asked Rane, with a cold smile. "Long way to come for a visit."

  "Some people are worth visiting." The leader pushed his horse to the front and levelled a loaded and cocked crossbow at Rane. He grinned back, showing the few teeth he had left, all black and ruined. He wore leather armour over stained clothes. A desperate man indeed. "Looks like we interrupted you doing something interesting; you standing there, sword in hand, covered in blood. You've not been killing that pretty wife of yours, have you?"

  "She's inside, safe," said Rane.

  The leader chuckled. "That's good. I'd hate to think of her coming to harm before she's got a chance to know the boys and me."

  "Why we bothering talking? Just shoot him and let's get paid,” said the man next to him, covered in Nortlunder tattoos even though he had a Balrussian's flat face. He produced a double-edged sword from a battered scabbard. The blade had more notches in it than straight edges, but Rane had no doubt it could still do what it was designed to do.

  "I recognised the sword," shouted Jeriah, sitting further back in the group, all red-faced and spitting, as if he was trying to work himself up into a righteous fury. "It's a Legion blade. Just like I told you." He had a rusted old sword in his hand, probably stolen off his father. Rane was amazed he even knew which way round to hold it.

  Rane looked over the others, as calm as if he'd just met them while out for an afternoon stroll. He could see no threat amongst them. None that would stand before Kibon's might. Still he reminded himself that he’d not killed a man for two years. Better to talk them out of their foolishness and send them home. "Why don't you just get down from your horses and we can sort out whatever’s got you all so worked up."

  The leader jabbed his crossbow towards him. "That old fool of a sheriff tried convincing us that you were just some old veteran like us trying to get by after the war but we knew better. You Legion types are always so easy to spot. Think yourselves so fucking clever. Now put your sword down and step away from it, with your hands where I can see them."

  "You've got the wrong man — you really have. Allow me to offer you some water and you can be on your way," Rane replied, watching each one to see who’d move first. He took a step closer to them as he spoke. Excitement raced through him. His sword screamed to be unleashed. "My home isn't much but it's not completely lacking in hospitality."

  "Put down your sword," snarled the man, squinting against the sun. "I won't ask again. There's a reward out for you Legionnaires. Ten thousand gold pieces and they don't care if you're dead or alive."

  "Why would anyone want to offer a reward for me?" replied Rane. He stepped closer to the leader's horse, as his mind calculated the order of the bounty hunters' deaths. "You've made a mistake."

  "Get off our land," shouted Kara, stepping out on to the porch, pistol in hand. "I'll not warn you again." Her voice startled the leader, her weapon even more so, and Rane watched the man swing his crossbow towards her.

  There was the faintest of whispers as Rane's sword slipped free of its sheath. It was the most seductive sound
in the world. Kibon, curved, single-edged, beautiful, sang as it cut through the air, just as the crossbow went off. Blood followed as the hand, still gripping the crossbow, tumbled towards the ground. Rane flowed forward, taking the Balrussian next. He didn't feel any resistance as he sliced the man from hip to hip. Kibon had been created to kill demons after all and there was no man or armour that could resist it. Energy flooded into Rane as he took the man's life, a thousand times more powerful than when he'd killed the Bracke. He almost screamed in delight.

  He continued past, his veins on fire, moving on to the third man, plunging his sword through the bounty hunter's horse. He was one with his sword. Rane was aware of someone somewhere shouting, of horses snorting in fear as the tang of blood filled their nostrils, but none of it mattered. The man fell and Rane took his head from his shoulders with a flick of his blade before he hit the ground. Every move was instinctive, as if Rane had never left the battlefield.

  One of the other men charged but Rane skipped to the side, watched a blade slice empty air in front of him and struck back on the turn. Rane's sword sliced through the rider, blood sprayed across Rane’s face, warm and wet, and it took one heartbeat more before the man realised he was dead.

  The fifth man attacked and fared no better.

  One man was left, all fight gone. He looked down from his horse at Rane in horror, facing his death. "You're a demon!" he cried before turning his mount and spurring it into a gallop back the way the hunters had come only moments earlier. Rane knew he couldn't let him get away. He ran after the man, legs pumping, picking up speed. Energy flowed through him from the sword, powering him. He pounded along the dirt track, staring at the bounty hunter's back, willing himself to close the gap. Kibon screamed in his mind, demanding the bounty hunter pay the price for his folly. But the man had too much of a lead and had picked up too much speed. Rane watched him disappear over the crest of the hill. He stopped, cursing. The kid would be back with more men -— you could bet on that. Rane smiled. Let them all come. They would find death waiting for them.

  He turned and walked back to his front yard, catching his breath and letting the pounding of blood slow down in his veins. He could see the bodies scarring his beautiful home. Five men dead in just under two minutes.

  Jeriah lay in the dirt, cut from shoulder to hip. His dead eyes stared up at the sky as if he was watching the clouds drift past. Rane bent down and brushed his eyelids closed, unable to remember killing him. Rane had acted without thought, as he'd been trained to do. He tried to feel some regret at the boy's death but he had none. The boy was a fool. He’d thought he’d found easy money. His choice had brought him nothing but death.

  Rane glanced down at Kibon in his hand. Not a drop of blood remained on it. It hummed with energy, alive, beautiful. Let the world's armies come against him and it would carve a hole through them all.

  Only the leader was still alive, sitting on the ground, covered in his own blood, clutching the stump that was once his right hand, crying in fear and pain. Rane crouched down before him. "Why's there a bounty on my head?"

  "Bastard. You evil bastard. You've killed me," spat the man. Tears ran down his face, a hard man broken by the touch of death. Already his skin had turned marble white as the blood leaked from him. He didn't have much time left.

  "I didn't ask for this," replied Rane. "You came to my door. So I ask again — why?"

  The man glared at him, full of anger and fear. "Fuck you. Who knows, who cares? There's a price on your head. Nothing else matters."

  "It does to me. We fought the Rastaks and their demons. We killed them all. Mankind is still alive because of us," replied Rane. "Why would anyone want us dead?"

  "Fuck you," said the leader, blood spilling from his lips. "We both know you're not letting me go. So just kill me. And kill the next poor bastards who come to get you. And the next. But one day you won't be quick enough, or you won't have that fucking sword to hand, and then you'll pay for all you've done."

  "All we did was win the war," replied Rane with a whisper.

  The bounty hunter crumpled at Rane's feet, more blood staining the ground. Rane lifted him up to see if he was still alive but the thin delicate cut from one side of neck to the other told him there was no point. Again he looked at his sword, unaware of even making the killing stroke, shivering with the magic flowing through him.

  Rane rose to his feet and retrieved the scabbard. It was a simple red sheath, as elegant in its own right as the blade it housed. He placed the tip of the sword into it, but stopped. The thought of slipping the blade back into darkness pained him. After being asleep for so long, it deserved to stay out in the world. He looked at his reflection in the polished metal and his own eyes pleaded for him not to do it. The blade was his. Its power was his. There’d be more men to kill. Best be ready. Best be waiting.

  It was only when he gazed around at the dead bodies that littered his land and saw his beautiful home stained with their blood did he find the strength to push the blade home. It sighed as it disappeared from view. He may love the sword but the sword loved death more.

  "Nathaniel?"

  He spun around. "Kara?" She

  sat propped up against the side of the cottage, barely visible in the rising gloom. A crossbow bolt jutted from her breast.

  4

  The crossbow bolt had struck Kara high on her breast. The fact that she was still alive was a good thing — it had missed her heart. If it had missed her lung as well, it was nothing he couldn't fix. He'd dealt with far worse in the war. As long as there was no blood on her lips, she'd be fine.

  "It hurts." Kara's words were a whisper. "I think I'm dying."

  "It just feels that way," said Rane took her hand, and tried not to worry about how cold her skin felt. "Just breathe slowly. I'll fix everything."

  "Will your sword work its magic on me?" Kara tried to laugh, but only cried out in more pain. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I'm scared, Nathaniel."

  "Don't be. Everything is going to be all right. I'm going to get some bandages from inside and then I'll come back and remove the bolt. Okay?"

  Kara nodded. Rane squeezed her hand one more time and ran inside the house. He rummaged through drawers looking for the bandages. How could his home, his sanctuary, have come to this? He had chosen the location to avoid the world and yet death had still found him.

  He returned to Kara a few moments later. She smiled when she saw him. He knelt beside her, kissed her cheek. "I told you I wouldn't be long."

  "Do you think the baby's safe?" asked Kara.

  "If it’s anything like you, it'll be fine. Tough as can be," replied Rane. He almost choked on the words, tried not to think too much about the truth behind them. Instead he concentrated on treating her wound. He used a small knife to cut her blouse away from the bolt only to find it was much lower than he'd hoped. He stopped and checked Kara's face once more. She was pale from loss of blood but still there was no blood on her lips. A good sign that the bolt had missed her lungs.

  Kara groaned as she tried to shift position.

  "Try and stay still," said Rane, helping her.

  She squeezed his hand back but there wasn't much strength left in it. Fear swept over Rane. She shouldn't be fading as quickly as she was if the bolt hadn't hit anything vital.

  "I'm going to pull the bolt out now," he said wrapping his hand around it. "It's going to hurt, probably more than it does now but it'll pass and I'll be able to fix the wound once I've done it. Okay?"

  Her eyes fluttered. She coughed. "Do it."

  Rane let go of the bolt. He stared at the blood on her lips; the blood he'd been dreading, the blood that said the bolt had punctured a lung. He couldn't pull it free — doing so would kill her instantly. He rested his head against her's, kissed her.

  She coughed more blood. "Have you done it yet? Have you pulled the bolt out?"

  "Yes," he lied. Tears ran down his cheeks. He didn't want Kara to see him cry but there was nothing he could
do.

  "Huh. Wasn't so bad after all."

  "You're so brave." He kissed her cheek.

  "Feeling cold. Has it got cold?"

  Rane shifted her until she lay in his arms, resting against his chest. They had a view over the front yard unspoilt by the dead. The sun washed over the grass and somewhere a couple of birds sang. "Is that better?" he asked.

  "My favourite place is in your arms." Kara coughed again, and Rane held her tighter as if that could stop Heras from taking her.

  "Just rest, you'll feel better soon."

  "It's stopped hurting."

  "That's a good sign."

  "You're a terrible liar, Nathaniel Rane. One of the things I liked about you. Promise me something."

  "Anything."

  "Find Marcus. Make sure he's safe. Tell him I love him."

  "You can tell him yourself. We'll go and find him together." His voice started to crack. After all the death he'd seen, all the friends and comrades lost, he should be able to handle this, be stronger, but it was like he was dying too.

  "Promise me, Nathaniel." More blood spilled from her mouth.

  "I promise." The tears ran freely down his cheeks as his heart broke. He wiped the blood from her chin.

  "I'm scared. I..."

  "Shhh. I'm here." Rane stroked her face. "Save your strength."

  Kara's eyes grew wide as she gripped Rane's hand for all she was worth. "I love you so much."

  "I love you too," replied Rane but the light had gone from her. He brushed his hand over her eyes, closing them. At least her suffering was over. He put his hand over his mouth as if that would stop all the emotions within him from spilling out, but as he gazed down on her, he knew it was impossible. He held her as gut-wrenching sobs shook his body; unable to believe his beautiful wife was dead. Her life — their life — gone. Their baby...

  He sat there with her in his arms, looking out over their home. All of it was gone now. Whatever dreams, whatever hopes. Dead and ruined. He was a husband no more, a father no more. How could it be? How could their life turn around so completely in the space of a day?