Warriormage: Book Three of the 'Riothamus' trilogy

by Rosemary Fryth

  “Goddess, receive your sons once more into your embrace,” Aran said softly, reciting the simple yet ancient words of the final farewell. “Give them both your love and care, for they have come to this, the final darkness with much honour.”

  Taking the shovel from the once more bound Thakurian prisoner, Aran began to silently fill in the hole.

  “Sire, let us do this, so we too may honour the dead,” said Mage Hela whilst placing a gentle hand upon his mailed arm, “We have a better way.”

  Aran paused in his task, and seeing the intent look in her eyes, nodded and placed the shovel on the ground.

  Hela and Trenny walked up, and standing by the mound of dirt by the gravesite, spoke a few simple words over the freshly dug soil. Suddenly there was a localised buffeting of wind, and the soil began to rise upwards in a small spiralling column of air. Once the last of the soil was contained within the whirlwind, Trenny made a small gesture and the whirlwind reversed the direction of its vortex, and silently and softly the soil rained down upon the two bodies until the hole was again filled in. Kneeling down again, Alissa put forth her Reinforced Ability, and within moments the dark wound of new soil was covered in grass and herbaceous growth.

  “We have now honoured the dead,” Aran said dully, finally yet reluctantly turning away from the grave.

  “Now we the living have pressing matters and duties ahead of us. Let the Goddess take in her embrace our fallen comrades…we however must now look to our own lives and survival.”

  Darven nodded, “Let us return to camp and rest. We have ridden all night and not yet broken our fast.”

  *

  With his hands firmly bound, and a sword point hovering near his lower back, the Thakurian prisoner stumbled wearily in the wake of the group returning to the camp. The hard face of his guard was not one to inspire confidence or even conversation, so the Thakurian kept his mouth shut, and his thoughts very much to himself.

  He was certain now that he had fallen in with the very highest ranked of the people of the Free Province. It was clearly obvious that all the non-fighting civilians were sorcerers from the fabled island of Glaive, and the blond braided one who had been given such deference, had been addressed as Sire—a title normally only reserved for royalty. He spared a glance at the leader’s harsh and stiff back, and wondered briefly if this young man was the newly acclaimed King, of which all Thakur spoke with hushed and fearful voice.

  Rumour had been rife ever since the wide-ranging patrols had picked up the half-dozen stumbling and frightened survivors of the mounted attack force sent to secure the first of the central Free Provincial towns. Half-mad with festering injuries, hunger and cold, the survivors told of pits and traps, mists where there should have been snowy, cold air, and the maddened assault of the Free Army against them. They spoke too of a crazed leader with ice-cold grey eyes, who wielded a sword that burned as bright and as deadly as molten ore. They spoke of a soldier who could hew his way through the ranks, whilst expending as little effort as a small child running through a cloud of drifting pollen. A soldier, who slew at a glance, and who in one part of the engagement, single-handedly turned the battle in favour of his troops.

  The Thakurian looked up again at the tall blond-braided leader, and felt certain that this was the man of which all his people spoke. Earlier, during that morning’s attack, he had fallen stunned after hitting the ground when his horse had been killed beneath him. He had lay dazed upon the cold earth for many minutes, but he was not so unaware of his surroundings that he did not remember seeing the unearthly glow of that obviously sorcerer-crafted weapon, and the cold and hard eyes of the man who so lightly wielded it. Staring at the grief hardened body-lines of the man ahead, the Thakurian knew with utter certainty that if he attempted to flee, his life would be snuffed out as easily, and with as little remorse as a candle-flame.

  *

  It was not long after the burial that Aran, Drayden and Darven decided that it was past time to question the Thakurian prisoner. The guardsmen had tied the man to the trunk of a stout conifer, and his wrists and ankles were bound securely. Dressed in black leather breeches, leather and sheepskin boots, a heavy greasy raw grey wool tunic loosely belted in at the waist, and also wearing a much creased black leather jerkin, the young man seemed oblivious to the cold. His black hair hung in lank, untidy waves to his shoulders, and his face and neck had been tanned dark by the sun. The dark skin however was not natural, for as he moved his head, Aran could see skin as pale as buttermilk at the edge of his tunic where the sun had not bronzed it. The prisoner had obviously not set a blade to his face for a while, for dark stubble was growing on his chin and cheeks. As the three men approached, the prisoner looked up and fear was reflected in his dark, intelligent eyes.

  “Who are you?” asked Drayden haltingly, in the coarse Thakurian tongue.

  The Thakurian stared up at the three men standing over him and struggled to formulate a reply that would not get him instantly killed.

  “My name is Te-Gormeth,” he replied in the language of the Free Province, “I am a Scout.”

  “You speak our language? Good! Are you with the army?” snapped the dark-haired, fierce-eyed warrior.

  The Scout shrugged, “You may think so, although I had little choice in the matter. When the war began I was taken from my Caste, and drafted into the patrols.”

  Aran met Darven’s glance, nodded then spoke directly to the prisoner.

  “You do not have the touch of your Warleader upon you. How is it that you have escaped her grasp?”

  The Scout was flummoxed. How was it that these people knew of the great and terrible control of the Warleader upon the army?

  “I am free because I am a skilled Scout…a tracker…I would be useless in my task if my mind was Held,” he replied uneasily.

  “Then how is it that your people have willingly subjected themselves to this atrocity?” spat out Darven, his own Warriormage rage only lightly leashed in the presence of this man.

  The man shrugged again, “I don’t know, I cannot understand it. I only know that there was almost no resistance to the Honoured Warleader’s rise to power…” he paused, uncertain how freely he should speak. Finally he decided to elaborate, knowing that his life was probably forfeit anyway.

  “We have long coveted your fertile lands,” he explained. “We stung also from the way your leader overthrew us all those generations ago. Even today the name of your long-dead Warleader Andur is spoken of as a threat against disobedient children…”

  “Then all your children should shake in their beds,” interrupted Aran softly, “For I am the true descendant of Andur’s line.”

  The Scout’s face paled at that news, and he hurriedly turned his own eyes aside from the clear grey-eyed gaze of the Free Provincial leader.

  “Why did you attack our party?” asked Drayden crisply.

  Gratefully the Scout turned to the golden haired sorcerer, “We thought you were merchants. For many days now we have been low on supplies, and my captain hungered after the rich pickings of a merchant’s caravan. We did not expect to come across such a strong and well-armed enemy column so close inside our own borders.”

  Darven turned and laughed bitterly, “We gave you good reckoning. I am surprised you did not turn back once you saw how well we were armed.”

  The Scout stared at the young warrior, “I tried to turn them back once it was obvious that we were pursuing a group other than merchants, but I have found it difficult trying to reason with others when they are Held.”

  “I regard free will as a skill necessary in my soldiers,” said Aran gravely and coldly. “This is why our nations war, for I find it abhorrent that this Warleader should again try to enslave my people.”

  The Scout stared at the tall leader, his dark eyes quailing before the steady cold grey eyes, “I heard them call you Sire, are you this new King of which all speak?”

  Aran inclined his head, “I am.”

  “Are the tales also true,
that on the battlefield you are like a living sword to your soldiers, that you are possessed of inhuman ways of fighting? Is it true that you can kill at a glance?”

  Aran’s and Darven’s glance met again.

  “Inhuman…no,” replied Aran. “Above normal, perhaps…but yes, the tales are true.”

  *

  “So what in Andur’s name are we going to do with him?” asked Aran as he paced distractedly about the campsite.

  “Killing him is always an option,” replied Darven from where he sat, cleaning the blood and rust from his sword, his back firmly up against the trunk of a tree.

  Aran stopped in his pacing, “Why should I do that Darven? He is no threat to us.”

  The Wolf Leader stared into the snowy distance, “He is of Thakur. He is one of our avowed enemies. He may not be a soldier, but he is still part of the army as an auxiliary. In my mind that is one and the same. He has forfeited his life.”

  Aran shook his head, “I disagree. I cannot kill him, especially since his mind has not been touched by the Warleader.”

  Darven looked up from his task, “Sometimes you are too moral, my king. As soldiers we are taught that the only good enemy is a dead enemy. How will we know that this man is not going to try and escape and warn his superiors of our presence?” He paused, “Had you not given thought to this? That knowing your identity he might try to kill you whilst you slept, I am sure his Warleader would greatly honour him for that deed.”

  Aran turned on his friend in some anger, “Yet killing him would reduce us to their level, Darven. Could you murder a civilian in cold blood? I certainly could not, for murder it is named, and murder it would certainly be.”

  “Murder in warfare is a common enough occurrence,” Darven snapped back. “Every time we walk onto a battlefield we commit murder against our own kind.”

  Aran’s eyes flared, “Would you name us all murderers because we fight for the peace and liberty of our land and people?”

  “What else can we be?” argued Darven coldly. “Oh our cause might be good and just in the Goddess’s eyes, but still can you give another name for the fighting and killing we do?”

  Aran sagged, “I do not like to be reminded of the man I become when the rage and madness comes…”

  He looked up and stared into the Wolf Leader’s eyes, “Yet you too have changed, Darven. I would never have thought to hear you speak so in the weeks before this awful war. The Warriormage Ability has hardened you too. Would Kiaia still love the man you have become?”

  Darven met his king’s eyes without flinching, “As Alissa loves you despite your faults, I am certain that Kiaia would forgive me also my transgressions.”

  Aran nodded sighing, “I am sorry Darven, I apologise for my words. It is not good that we two should quarrel.”

  Darven sighed, then stood and walked across to clasp firmly his friend’s arm.

  “It is hard enough being men caught in this war, without us also being Warriormages,” he smiled ruefully. “I am sorry also for my quick words. If you believe the Thakurian should live, then we will take him with us as a prisoner of war.”

  Aran grinned suddenly, “I do not think there will be any danger in him. I have already asked Halffang to make certain that the Brethren kill the Thakurian if he makes one step towards escaping, or harming any member of the party.”

  Aran’s grin broadened, “In truth Halffang did not need much persuading.”

  Darven laughed “Here I was thinking that our King and foremost Warriormage was addled in his wits. You do not want his blood upon your hands, so you ask humankind’s only natural enemies to ward him for you.”

  Aran smiled and nodded, “I may be a moral man Darven, but I am not stupid. Would you allow a fox free access to a hen run without dogs to protect the hens?”

  Darven grinned, “Are you implying that I am a hen?”

  Aran nodded, “My friend, in this place we are all hens, and all about us are a nation of foxes.”

  *

  With the wolves taking turns to guard both the group and the prisoner, Aran decided that it was safe enough for everyone to finally sleep away the deep weariness that had affected the camp after the long night ride, and the tragic events of the morning. The prisoner had been warmly housed in the spare tent, his hands and feet firmly, and securely bound with a short length of Glade rope, with a wolf additionally guarding the tent’s only entrance.

  Aran yawned, and lifting the tent flap, glanced across to the tent in which the Thakurian lay.

  “He will not be comfortable being bound so,” Aran observed, “At least he will not freeze to death. For a prisoner of war he is being remarkably well looked after.”

  “It is the best we can do, given the circumstance.” Alissa replied. “I am only glad you did not feel it necessary to kill him.”

  “If there is any killing to be done, then let the wolves do it,” Aran said heavily. “They are not bound by humanity’s morality, or compunction against killing in cold blood.”

  “I think they have their own code of morality,” replied Alissa tiredly, “It’s just that I don’t think humans necessarily fit into it.”

  “For the moment we all walk the same path,” Aran murmured closing his eyes.

  “Once this war is over I guess that they will return to the forest to prey again upon unwary travellers.”

  “Nature demands no other way,” yawned Alissa. “For this brief time only we are allied against a common enemy. The wolves are held by their promise to the Entity, and the forces within the Node.”

  “Then it is useful we have their allegiance,” murmured Aran, “For it would certainly mean our deaths if they turned against us.”

  *

  It took a long while for the Scout to fall asleep. He was used to sleeping on the hard ground, but the small leather tent was close and stuffy, and he keenly felt the presence of the wolf outside. He marvelled again at this race of men who had the ability to control and command the huge wild grey wolves, wolves which had always been a bane, and a curse to lone travellers in the more remote regions of the Trident Range. Those of the Tracker caste had always been recognised for their quick intelligence, and indeed it had not taken this particular Scout long to guess that these animals had been sent to guard him, and kill him if he tried to obtain his freedom. Lying on his side, his hands and feet tied firmly but not tightly, the Scout tried to capture sleep, but its grasp was tenuous and elusive. Again he thought of the clearly charismatic Free Provincial leader, and wondered not for the last time, what in mercy’s name he was doing with this unlikely band inside his enemy’s border.

  *

  The guarding wolves and the wards set by Sage Ash proved to be an effective combination, for the camp slept right through that afternoon and night without disturbance or discovery. By dawn however, everyone was roused and hungrily breaking rations out of packs, and searching for dry kindling on the edges of the grove to light a small banked cook fire. The leather tents and sleeping sacks had kept out the worst of the damp and cold, so everyone was reasonably refreshed and ready to face the rigours of the new day. Munching on a piece of a dried fruit and vegetable loaf, and gazing northwards into the very heart of the mountains, Aran guessed that they would perhaps have only one or two more day’s use out of the horses. After that they would have to discard a great deal of their equipment into a cache, and continue on foot.

  “My lord Aran,” he heard a voice call out.

  Aran turned, and smiled when he saw Darven walk up, “Have you yet eaten? These dried fruit loaf slices are very good.”

  Darven nodded, “Aye, I just came over to let you know that that Genn, Drayden, Kunek, Gunthred and I are planning on saying goodbye to Sigund and Trevan’s grave site. We wondered if you’d like to come too…”

  Aran nodded, “I was going to walk over just as soon as we had packed, however if you all are going now then that’s fine by me.”

  He glanced across at the others still sitting around the fire, “Didn�
�t they want to come?”

  Darven shook his head, “No, Genn is coming because he also is a Healermage, but I think the others want to try and forget the grief of yesterday.”

  Aran nodded, “I can understand that, did you say Kunek and Gunthred are coming?”

  “Aye, they’ve all been together in Bear Company for many years. Sigund’s death was a hard loss to them, as they’ve been friends and comrades for a long time.”

  Aran turned away from the waiting mountains, “Well then I’m ready, shall we go?”

  Darven nodded, “The others have already gone on ahead, so we’ll catch them up at the gravesite.”

  *

  It did not take them long to make the short walk into the grove of trees, and soon Aran and Darven had joined the others making their silent leave taking of their two companions. The guardsmen were unusually glum as they stared at the still green patch of grass that marked the final resting place of their fellow soldier.

  “It seems such a pity to leave him here,” said Gunthred hollowly. “I mean it’s so far away from the keep and all.”

  “At least they both have been honourably buried,” replied Kunek, “Which is more that can be said for the rest of us if we don’t make it back. If any of us fall at Erie, then I doubt that the Thakur will allow us time to bury our dead. I don’t know what their burial rites are, but it’s my guess that we’ll end up mouldering where we fall.”