HE WHO FIGHTS (Nathaniel Rane Book 1)

by Mike Morris

  Rane nodded, not reassured. He hoped Fia and the others were alive, even if it meant the pilgrims would eventually send an army to Orska after them. Better to hope that than believe his friend was lost.

  "There's no way I'm going to sleep now," said Myri, "so you might as well get some more rest. We'll move at first light"

  "Can't see myself sleeping either," replied Rane. "Dawn's not far off. Let's make a start now. We could make Orska in a few hours."

  Myri turned and headed over to the horses, untied them and then threw the reins of Rane's horse to him. They both mounted, and with only a click of the tongue from Myri, they were on their way again.

  It was strange being back in the border regions. So much of his life had been spent there, and yet while he'd been with Kara the war years had seemed like a dream best forgotten. Now he was back, the feeling was reversed. It was as if his time with Kara in Ascalonia had never existed, as if his days of love and happiness were some half-remembered dream. It was too easy to exist in a world of blood and death. It was all too natural.

  A clear, cold, star-filled sky gave them light enough to see by, but they didn't push the horses, allowing them to find their own way down the slope. There was no point injuring the horses on an unseen hole when they were so close to the journey's end. The path led down into a small valley before climbing up the side of another mountain. Small clumps of thistle pocketed the slopes here and there but otherwise, it was just as barren as Rane remembered it from the early days of the war.

  After the Rastaks had torn through Naijin and Fascaly, they'd laid siege to the city of Napolin at the cross roads of the five nations. No one believed that Napolin would hold them for long or that the Rastaks would be satisfied with the lands already conquered. When it came time for the Rastaks to head South, Orska lay directly in their path.

  The Legion had headed to Orska in force, dragging with them every soldier and militia they could find along the way, armed with as many cannon as they could muster. It was the largest fighting force that had been gathered in over a hundred years, determined to stop the Rastaks war machine in its tracks.

  The first sign Napolin had fallen was the refugees crossing the border. They'd started coming in small groups; the luckier ones on horseback, but a trickle soon became a flood. Most only had the clothes on their backs and only a few had much to eat. Even so they'd not wanted to stop at Orska. They knew what was following on behind.

  The Legion had marched out to meet the Rastaks three days later at Hasloken. But it wasn't a battle when the two forces met. It was a massacre. The Legion had held their own against the Rastaks but once the demons joined the attack, the tide turned quickly. The battle only lasted only a day and Rane could still vividly remember the mounds of dead left in the field.

  As the Legion retreated had began back to Candra, they could hear the Rastaks singing their victory songs and the screams of their prisoners as they were sacrificed to Heras.

  And there Rane was, years later, riding out to Orska once more.

  By the time Rane and Myri reached the valley floor, the sun had started to climb the other side of the mountain. Streaks of red and purple heralded its arrival but it would be hours yet before the two Legionnaires would feel its warmth. At least they could see a path ahead through the barren landscape and no other demons lay in wait for them. Hopefully it would remain that way until they reached Orska.

  Orska where Jefferson was waiting with a cure for both of them. Just thinking that gave him a new burst of energy. Soon all their problems would be over.

  It was well into the afternoon by the time they reached the top of the last mountain and the sight that waited for them made the whole journey worthwhile.

  Orska.

  The castle hadn't changed. It sat straddling the road north with its big walls and its back to the Pacini Sea, sparkling blue behind it. Two watchtowers stood guard either side of the main gate and Rane followed the battlements along with his eye, past the round mural tower, the main keep looming behind, across the upper bailey to the square siege tower and arsenal tower at the other end. It was his whole life once, where he could easily have died. Now it held all his hopes for the future.

  The fortress seemed smaller than he remembered, a fragile place to have withstood so much. Time had weathered the stone walls to match the surrounding hillsides, shrinking it further. It was hundreds of years old, built for the skirmish wars with Fascaly before the five nations became allies, back when everyone seemed happy to go to war over a careless remark or a wandering flock.

  Behind it, the harbour was a bed of grey calm topped by small wisps of waves. A perfect spot to launch ships out into the world and cut off any seeking Ascalonia's shores.

  However, the walls of the castle seemed deserted. Rane couldn't see any guards or sentries, despite the fact a garrison should still be posted there. No flags flew on the walls, no light yet burned in the windows. The only sign of life was another murder of crows circling overhead. He could hear their squawks, telling the world of their arrival. Evil creatures. Rane hated them as much as any Bracke.

  The wind drifted past, plucking at his clothes and hair. For the first time, Rane could feel the seeds of doubt begin to break though the surface of his hope. What would he do if Jefferson wasn't there? If no cure waited for them? What if his whole quest had been nothing but a fool's errand? Fear filled his mind as he imagined the worst.

  If Myri felt the same, she didn't show it. Just kicked her heels and got her horse on its way. Rane followed, wondering if she was lost already.

  Orska grew more imposing as they drew near. But just when Rane was convinced the post was abandoned, he saw movement on the battlements. Then a voice called out, warning that two riders approached, and Rane found himself grinning like an idiot. Thoughts of everything that had happened since Kara died raced through his mind, what he'd endured, what he'd survived, and he thanked the Gods it was over. The Legion was there, waiting for him. Soon he would be back amongst his brothers and sisters. Soon the curse would be gone and they could set about repairing the Legion's reputation. He gazed up at the walls, wondering who might be there with Jefferson, what old friends he'd find.

  The southern side of the castle hadn't taken the beating that the other side had from the Rastaks but time had taken a toll of its own on the building. Wind and dust had worn the stone smooth, and in other places, had turned walls into jagged edges.

  They stopped before the main gates and dismounted. The portcullis was already raised but the large oak doors were still closed. Rane glanced over at Myri and found she had a grin of her own. She was standing straighter, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders and a fire burned once more in her eyes.

  "We made it. We fucking made it," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  "That we did," replied Rane.

  Myri pushed the gates but they were locked so instead she rapped on the wood with her sword's hilt. The sound echoed into the castle.

  As they waited, Rane felt Kibon whisper in the back of his mind, urging to be freed. What if danger waited for him on the other side of the gates? Better to face whatever was coming with naked steel. Better to have his sword in his hand, ready. He looked at Myri out of the corner of his eye but she didn't seem to be experiencing the same feelings. If anything, she looked happier than she had in a long time. So why was Kibon so restless? Perhaps it could sense its end was near.

  Approaching footsteps shook him from his thoughts and doubts. His heart quickened as bolts were slid free and a cross beam moved. The gates groaned as they opened, straining on rusted hinges, and a streak of sunlight forced its way outside. Two men in full Legion uniform with shaved heads stood before him. Rane didn't recognise their faces but they had the look of soldiers used to living on the front line. Hard men, ready for violence at a moment's notice. Their swords were sheathed on their backs, but both had muskets aimed at Myri and Rane. Other soldiers, also in full uniform, waited in the lower bailey on the other si
de of the gatehouse, weapons drawn. No one was taking any chances.

  "Greetings brothers," Rane said with his right hand raised, happy to show the scar. "No one's looking to cause any trouble."

  The Legionnaires' gaze drifted over Rane and Myri. "Let's see your swords before you come any closer," said the Legionnaire on the left. "Move slowly while you do it. We'll be just as happy to shoot you if we have to."

  "As I said, we're not here to cause trouble," replied Rane. "The Lord General sent for us."

  "The swords. Now," replied the sentry and raised the musket to his shoulder. Aimed it squarely at Rane.

  Rane slipped his sword off his shoulder. A thrill ran through him as he touched the sword's hilt, Kibon excited to be free but he controlled the emotions, taking his time to slowly unsheathe the sword. Dotted along the blade, Rane could see the stains marking the otherwise perfect steel.

  "Put it away," said the sentry before turning to Myri. "Now yours."

  Myri placed the sheath of her sword under her right arm and drew the blade out with her left hand. It was all but black.

  At the sight of the sight of the sword, Rane was forgotten.

  "Don't fucking move!" screamed the first sentry, finger wrapped around the trigger of his weapon. "Don't even fucking blink." The sentry next to him had his own musket up and aimed at Myri a half second later. Others from the rear guard rushed to join them, adding spears and pikes to the weapons amassed against Myri.

  "Take it easy," said Rane. "She's not turned."

  "I'll be the fucking judge of that," snapped the sentry. He jabbed his musket towards Myri. "You! Put your sword on the ground and walk backwards. Don't fucking stop till I tell you."

  "Just get Lord Jefferson..." said Rane but the sentry just shouted over him.

  "Do as I say. Put your sword on the ground and walk backwards. Do it or I'll fucking kill you here and fucking now."

  Rane looked over at Myri and was petrified by the glint in her eye. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword.

  29

  "Put the sword down. Put the sword down." All the guards were shouting at Myri and it wasn’t going to take much for someone to start shooting. That’s if Myri didn’t draw her sword first.

  "Myri, do as they say. We've come too far," Rane urged. "Don't get killed now when there's a cure on the other side of this door."

  Myri smiled again beneath cold eyes. For one dreadful moment, Rane thought she was going to attack. His mind raced for ways to stop it — stop her — but all he could see was a bloodbath. But then Myri bent down, and gently placed her sword on the ground as if it were a baby being put down to sleep. She lay the sheath next to it. Only then did she step backwards, her eyes locked on the first sentry, smile fixed to her face. When she was twelve feet away, Rane could see old wounds start to open. Little red lines sprung up over her skin, growing wider with each step. She staggered, clutched her stomach, and swayed on her feet. Two more steps and she went down, a red flower blossoming on her chest. Myri tried to stand, to push herself up with her good hand but her strength was gone. She fell backwards, all her energy and fight gone.

  "What the..." Rane started towards her but a musket in the chest stopped him.

  "Leave her," said the sentry. "George, get the fucking sword. Simon, Reynard, get the girl. If she so much as opens her eyes, cut her fucking head off."

  The men moved as one. George, a huge Ascalonian, stepped forward, pulling on gloves. Even so, he took care picking up Myri's sword, sheathing it and then placed it in a bag. The other two men picked up Myri and then they moved as a group back into the castle, always maintaining the same distance between themselves and Myri’s sword.

  "She'll die if you keep her from her sword," protested Rane.

  "Not yet she won't," said the sentry. They watched Myri disappear inside the mural tower. Once she was out of sight, the tension disappeared. Weapons were lowered. "I'm sorry about that, but we can't take any risks. Believe me, she'll be well taken care of. She's one of us after all."

  Rane hesitated, a sense of unease growing in him while Kibon whispered away. It wanted to fight. It warned him of enemies and of danger. He pinched his brow. By Odason and Heras, how he wanted the voice silenced.

  The sentry slung his musket over his shoulder. "You've come a long way. Come in. I know that wasn't the welcome you expected but we lost two men to a Tainted a few days ago. As you said, no one wants to die this close to a cure. My name's Isaiah. This is Gregor. I recognise you from back in the day but I can't recall your name."

  "My name's Nathaniel. Nathaniel Rane. I was garrisoned here during the war."

  Isaiah held out his hand to shake. "Good to meet you, Nathaniel."

  Rane took the offered hand as he tried to place the name and face, full of unease. "And you, Isaiah."

  "Let's get you settled." Isaiah guided Rane through the main doors and into the barbican while Gregor slipped into position behind them. "I'll get some of the boys to stable your horses while we find you a room and some hot food. We'll let you know when the Lord General can see you."

  They passed under the second portcullis and entered the lower bailey.

  "What about Myri?" asked Rane.

  "Is that the Tainted's name?" Isaiah looked over to the mural tower.

  "She's not Tainted." Rane hoped. He prayed.

  "Whatever you say. Until we're sure however, we'll put her in the cells with the others. Can't risk having her loose, I'm afraid. Hopefully it won't be for long."

  Rane nodded. "I understand. Her name’s Myri Anns.” He looked around the old castle. “How many others are here? I was hoping she could — I could — be cured as soon as possible."

  "There's about forty of us here including five tainted in the cells. Not enough, not nearly enough. Most of us have been cured already." Isaiah shared a glance with Gregor. Both looked happy at that. "Jefferson’s is waiting now to see who else turns up before he breaks the curse again. It takes too much of a toil on him to do it often."

  "I understand," said Rane but couldn't help but disappointed at the news. He was in Orska with the people who could cure him and he was going to have to wait.

  "We're using rooms in the main keep at the moment. It's this way." Isaiah pointed towards the other side of the bailey and the second gatehouse.

  "I remember," said Rane, forcing a smile. It was like walking through memories. Each step brought the past back in greater focus. None of it felt good.

  "Of course," replied Isaiah. "I actually fought with you back in the day. I was part of a group that you led to help Marcus Shaw and some others to safety in Candra."

  "That all happened in a bit of a blur," replied Rane. There was something vaguely familiar about Isaiah but Rane still couldn't place him. The man was battered and scarred as any veteran, with a chunk missing from an ear, but he looked too young to have been in the war for long. Perhaps he'd been one of the new recruits back towards the end. Still, it was odd that he hadn't recognised any of the Legionnaires he'd seen so far. "Is Babayon here as well?"

  Isaiah hesitated for a moment. "No. He's not been seen since the war. At least, not by me he hasn't."

  "Has anyone seen him or spoken about him?" They passed through the second gatehouse into the middle bailey. Sentries walked the battlements, watching them as they crossed the courtyard.

  Isaiah scowled at Rane. "I've already told you I haven't seen him. Maybe Jefferson has, but he's not going to tell me. I'm hardly the Lord General's confidant."

  "I'm sorry," said Rane. "I meant no offence. I just wonder if Babayon knew what he was doing to us — what he was really doing to us — when he transferred our souls to our swords."

  "By the Gods. Enough with the questions.” There was a bite to Isaiah's words and his cheeks coloured, as he struggled to control his temper. He glanced over Rane's shoulder at Gregor and unspoken words passed between them. Kibon sensed something wrong and stirred once more. Kill them, it whispered.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't me
an to upset you. I'm just tired. I'm looking forward to getting a good night's sleep," said Rane, changing the subject. "It's been a long road here. Bracke seem to be everywhere."

  That took the fight out of Isaiah. "I can imagine. It couldn't have been easy, especially with your friend."

  "I'm just glad we got here in time."

  Isaiah pushed open the door to the main keep and they headed for the eastern stairs. "Hopefully others will too."

  Rane let the Legionnaire lead the way. They walked up the spiral staircase to the upper levels. He'd forgotten how claustrophobic the confined space made him feel, especially after all his time travelling outdoors. Even the air felt trapped as he twisted his body to allow more room for his shoulders. At least the stairs negated the need for more awkward conversation with his companion.

  "Rooms are this way," said Isaiah as they reached the third floor. "Soon get you settled in."

  However they never made it to the rooms. As they walked down the corridor, a flurry of footsteps approached from the other direction, followed by voices. A second later, there in front of him, surrounded by a small personal guard of Legionnaires, was the Lord General himself, Sir Henry Jefferson.

  "By the Odason, Nathaniel, it is you. How I prayed for this moment." Jefferson held his arms out wide and the two men hugged like a father and son reunited. "It's so good to see you. So good to see you alive." The old man stepped back, still holding Rane's arms, to get a better look at him, smiling like all their troubles were already over.

  "It's good to see you too, Sir," replied Rane. Truth was, he was shocked to see the man before him. He remembered what Jefferson had looked like when they all thought Candra was going to fall — frail, a man with far too many years bearing him down into the grave. He'd changed slightly over the following years after that night, as they pushed the Rastaks back to the Steppes — his back had straightened, and colour had come back to his skin so it was no longer wax-thin and white, and his body had filled out with the regular meals that had come from the country's abundance of wildlife. Jefferson had been energised by the Legion's victories, or so Rane had thought. But the man before him had changed even more. The years had fallen off, taking their wrinkles with them. Jefferson had grown broad of shoulder, and looked like a fighter once more, not a thinker. He resembled Rane's older brother, not his grandfather.