The aggressive Warlock is distracted by his fight with Fenrir and Ivar, seeing a chance I draw two arrows. They both hit their mark, but simply bounce off the Warlock’s back. He must be wearing armour below his robes. I aim another to the back of his knee, before he realises what’s happening. My arrow skims the Warlock’s knee. He turns to me and attempts to charge forward but is clearly slowed. Fenrir chases him trying to reach me. I fire off as many arrows as I can. He avoids my arrows as though they were moving at a snail’s pace and reaches me within an instant. I catch the flash of glowing silver as he readies himself to cut me down. From nowhere the Warlock crushes to the ground with the bull that is Ulfmaer tackling him. Ulfmaer presses the handle of his axe into the Warlock’s throat. The Warlock is barely holding Ulfmaer back, I realise he has dropped his sword and his source of power. Fenrir appears over both of them and drives his sword into the eye hole of the Warlocks helmet.
Water is beginning to empty from the clouds. Beside us Eindride is being crushed by strike after strike. I see more clearly now, the Warlock is using the water to attack, casting great streams of water from his swords.
“He is using the rain!” I yell to the others.
“Circle him!” Ivar yells. We all run to place gathering around the last Warlock. He relents from attacking Eindride and turns his head, looking around at us.
Suddenly his rough voice breaks through the rain, “well come on then!” he says with his face now exposed.
Fenrir looks to Eindride who nods. They all charge him and I set more arrows free. The Warlock doesn’t plan to let us kill him though. Whipping his swords back and forth sending blades of water at each of the warriors. Fenrir, Ivar and Eindride are knocked back. Ulfmaer cuts through the water and reaches the Warlock before he can attack again, shocking him. The axe wielding monster hacks at the Warlock as he tries to step backward. The axe cuts into the Warlocks leg, splitting it open. A massive blast of water erupts from the Warlock knocking Ulfmaer, along with the rest of us, backward. My arrows fly off in random directions.
“No!” he shouts, “you will not defeat me!”
He suddenly starts spinning his blades around. Water gathers and lashes out in wild un-predictable streams. Ivar is slammed again and he flies away into the forest. Eindride takes a knee hiding behind his shield, though he is being crushed by a waterfall of attacks. Ulfmaer is yelling in rage as he tries to cut through the water, swinging at attack after attack. Fenrir tries to duck and dive between the mad attacks, as am I. Ulfmaer is being pushed back with each slash he cuts through and is quickly overturned and slammed backward too. Between attacks, I try to aim another arrow. Without time to release the arrow properly, I’m hit and knocked over. The attacks intensify as the Warlock yells even louder. A blade of water cuts into Eindride’s shield and he loses control of it. While it bounces away, Eindride makes a last attempt, throwing his spear before he is hit and sent flying away. The Warlock is paying no attention to defending himself and doesn’t see the spear in time to defend against it, the spear ploughs through the side of the Warlock’s chest plate. The whirling attacks of water stop as he tumbles down to his hands and knees. The grip on his sword weakens. His face is pale and sickly, blood drips from his mouth.
“You will never destroy the order, we won’t let you!” he says. Fenrir rips his longsword from his hand.
Then slits the Warlocks throat as he repeats “we won’t let you,” over and over before choking on his own blood. The Warlock falls and his blood soaks the earth.
Chapter 5: A King’s City
~Eindride~
Grain fields flood the surrounding outer districts of Nortka, choking the fat roads with outreached arms of gold. Sparse farmers dot the fields as they leave their cottages to work the soil. Fenrir’s new prize hangs at his waist, reflecting the golden light as it sways. A mounted soldier gallops past us in a great rush to reach the city centre. I’ve no doubt it’s an important message. A few days have passed since the fighting in Prek, has word been sent?
Vesall is like an old shivergold tree. His old skin is a shade of bronze, like he never wore a shirt as a youngling, and his hair has grown untouched for years. He’s tall too, and his limbs thin. This wrinkled, frowning, old tree is pained by the secrets of his past, like me. Our dirt path winds to the right before revealing another wider road connected to it. This must be the Salt Path, the main road through the east.
The sun sits high amongst the clouds. Dried, cracked dirt crumbles below my boots as we pass the last of the outlying farms and houses. The central district is skirted by a stone wall, as tall as any building, guarding the steps to the royal keep that’s nestled within the heart of the city. A dozen farmers gather near the gate. Just within the watch of two towers standing, as sentinels, either side of the gate. Without a thought for formalities, Ulfmaer continues forth toward the merchant’s district.
“Halt!” a guard demands. His helmet and chest piece glowing a faint red in the sun, both of which are emblazoned the Kings griffin. “By order of High Commander Gellir, the city is under strict curfew.”
“We have plenty of coin and business in town, let us through,” Fenrir protests.
“You’re not merchants and you don’t live here, unless you can prove you have business in the city we can’t permit you entry.”
“We could be swayed to turn a blind eye, if there were a few coins in it,” a helmetless guard says approaching from the gates shadow. Ulfmaer shoves the guard to the side and walks into the city.
“Stop!” the first guard shouts as he draws his sword, pointing it to Ulfmaer.
“Come now, we can work something out,” Vesall says, turning to Fenrir for a moment. Vesall presents a thick coin made out of Bultzer, a dull grey metal. On one side it has a picture of the Allvaldr coat of arms and on the other, is a simple picture of Fruulo, the god of chance.
“That's a Bultzer coin! Where did you get one?” the helmetless guard asks, grabbing the coin from Vesall’s hand. After studying the coin for another moment, the guards nod to each other. “Alright, move along then,” he says.
The street is a mass of men and women, merchants and farmers wade through in every direction. Forming into squads of three to six men, the guards patrol the many paths of stone this city conceals. Loud calls ring out from street venders, selling goods that are the best in in the world, so they say. I feel as though someone will recognise the paint on my armour. I’d only been here twice before, once with Gildr and the other, with Gmenni. Traveling as the Barron’s private guard kept me too busy for a real view of the city. The second time was a world apart. Gmenni insisted we see libraries and theatres. A place like this could afford me a new life.
Horseshoes clap against the stone path and a carriage loaded with dry wheat passes us. Long banners hang between the tall buildings that stand over us, showing off the bright colours of Mannamot. Blacksmiths and builders, taverns and shops, every building in sight is offering something, for a price. Standing in the centre of the bustling hub, the Royal Keep watches everything that goes on in the area. Made of Avium and rock, the keep was built a thousand years ago, to protect the royal family against the rising Dragons, or was it Griffins. Nobody remembers the stories anymore.
The road eventually leads us to a huge courtyard of wooden buildings, centred around a stonework well. The road continues through towards the castle, employed by street merchants, farmers and wandering drunks.
“Somethings cooking,” Fenrir says from just ahead of me, sniffing the sweet-scented air.
“Over there, a guesthouse,” Vesall says pointing down to the far side of the square.
“Drunken Tails,” Fenrir read from a sign flapping in the thick breeze.
The tavern is held by two stores either side and boasts a wide entrance with decorated windows on both floors. Music grips us as we enter. A pair of bards display their talent as they bust into the chorus of a grand war ballad. The dozen men here are cheering and singing along, news of the Sigurdian assa
ult has not yet reached these folk. The patterns of drum beats echo though the tables as the lute and honeyed voice of the standing bard carry the lyrics.
“O, and when Varou,
took that castle,
he took with him the might of a god,
O, ten thousand men,
would be cut down by his sword,
and then he,
was Varou the dread!”
Long tables rest in two rows of three with a plenty of space between for a virtuous barfight. Most of the tables are empty and Fenrir takes a seat next to a windowed view of the courtyard and its roads outside. I spy a baker lifting a freshly baked loaf from an oven in the back room, next to the baker is a fat pig rotating atop a fire.
Ulfmaer lets out a big puff of air and says, “about time there was some shade.”
“You’re not wearing a set of thick armour,” I utter, we all take rest around the table.
A bar maiden dressed in a knee length blue dress and apron approaches us soon after, “mornin’, what can I get you fellows?”
“Five bottles of something cold,” I say, “and when will that pig out back be ready?”
“Noon, we’re making our special. Spit roasted pig with sweet sauce and blueberry bread. Two skiling a plate.” A general displeasure sweeps Ivar and Vesall, unimpressed by this description.
“Sounds lovely, bring us five of those as well,” I say, forcing their hands.
“And make it quick!” Ulfmaer yells as she leaves to help prepare the food.
Piece by piece, I unstrap my forearm guards and shoulder guards then place them on the table in front of me. I was gifted this armour on the day of my Knighting. The Barron was still young, and I was guard to a great lord of Mannamot. My armour was a symbol of that, now years later it bears so many dints and cracks, it’s been in service to the Venor family almost as long as me. My armour is but a reminder of the life I lost. Tomorrow I’ll find a blacksmith and sell all of it.
“I don’t believe you,” Ivar says arguing with Vesall. “Warlocks are not real.” Ivar’s plate still holds half of his sandwich, a shame to let such a pleasing meal go to waste.
“The day before last, you did battle with us against two men wielding some manner of profane magic. Why doubt what you know to be true.” Vesall tells him.
“Ok, so we fought two Warocks. Why did they attack us?” Ivar continues, staring at the new marks on my armour.
“Could it have been a mistake?” I ask.
“No, they didn’t just stumble into us. We were hunted.” Two bar maidens return with our third round of drinks.
“Thank you,” I say as I take the bottles and pass them around.
“What does it matter they’re dead now, I made sure of that,” Ulfmaer says. Everybody pours themselves a mug of mead. Both sweet and spicy, this mead is the perfect thing for my dry throat. I gulp down most of the mug within a moment or two, savouring the unique taste.
“Where did you learn of the Warlocks?” Fenrir asks, looking to Vesall.
“My family was always poor. When I was young a Warlock appeared, offering my parents a huge bag of coins and gems. My mother fought my farther, she wouldn’t give me up. My mother would tell me the story.” Fenrir continues to drink his ale, seemingly content with his answer.
Clouds have formed outside, and thunder can be heard in the distance. Outside, the many merchants scramble to shelter before the rain begins. Two soldiers pass through the grey light of the doorway, one moves to the bar hand and the other drives a nail through a poster beside the door.
“Listen here folk!” the guard shouts over the tavern’s noise. “The Sigurdians that once aided us against Osmond have joined this war.” The growing crowd of tavern begins to cheer and celebrate.
“The war’s won!” a farmer shouts.
“I wasn’t finished!” the soldier shouts again, “the Sigurdians have joined the war on Osmond’s side.” Silence befalls the people. “A section to the north-east has been taken already and ship loads of men have begun pushing through the south and the west. Enfi Jonmayn, the High King of all Manning, has decreed all taxes are to be increases by twenty skilings.”
“What, the taxes were already raised for this war! Farmers shout, “you can’t take the last of my coin, who’ll buy my girl an education!”
“Also, conscription is now mandatory for men who have passed the Rite of Age.” Outcry rings through the tavern. “Pass the message to your brothers and sons, any man that does not report to the barracks within the next three days will be tried as a deserter.” The soldier finishes his cold speech and passes into the courtyard again, taking with him a bundle of posters.
“I’m not fighting a war because the King wants me to and I’m not being hung as a deserter. I better tell you men what’s going on,” Fenrir says. Ulfmaer slouches into the wooden chair and picking his teeth as the rest of us listen intently.
"I've found a map,” Fenrir says, looking around at each of us. “It leads to the greatest vault of treasure on any dry land. We would be rich enough to never work another day in our lives.”
“Of course, you want to portion part of this to us because you need our help,” Ivar says while examining him.
“I couldn’t get to the treasure on my own. I would wager I’d never make it halfway, even with Ulfmaer at my side.”
“What makes it so dangerous you need five of us?” I ask.
“This treasure, we need to steal it from a Warlock sanctuary,” he says.
“They were after you then!” Vesall says, anger seeping through his voice. “This is a fool’s errand,” Ivar says, “I am no fool.” Ivar stands abruptly, leaving his bottle and mug, and departs the tavern in one swift movement. The courtyard of rain consumes him and his disappears into the chilly night.
“You want to rob an order of surreptitious wizards?” I ask.
“They’re just men, like us,” Fenrir states.
Ulfmaer looks to his brother and nods slowly, “we’ve already killed two of them,” he says.
“We will need to head west to the pirate coast and find a boat there. We gather a key in Sigurd then take it to the Warlocks off the coast of Haldor.” Fenrir builds a great deal of passion in his words, “are you with me?” The table stays quiet.
“It’s like my father would say. No tree grows to the sky,” I add. “I’ll have your back. No Sigurdian or raiders will stop us.” Fenrir turns to Vesall who is the last to answer. He sits still, thinking.
“Let me sleep on this. I’ll give you an answer in tomorrow’s light.”
With a crack and a rumble, I open my eyes to the darkness. Outside, the storm is raging. Flash. Lightning strikes, it sounds close. With heavy eyes, I try to put myself back to sleep but the pounding rain and howling wind is far too loud. After a while of laying in the darkness, I decide to go downstairs to watch the sky dance. I roll out of the rough bed; my bare feet press against the wooden floor.
Using a candle for light, I make my way out of my room and into the hallway. I have naught more than pants on and the cool night air chills my skin. As I move through the upstairs hallway, past the other rooms, I notice the door to Ulfmaer’s room hangs freely. With a gentle push, it swings open. His room is the same simple style as mine, but Ulfmaer himself is missing. I hear a thud from downstairs. It could be Ulfmaer, I continue toward the stairs. Step by step, I descend into the tavern. A figure sits alone in the dark. The man is draped over one of the tables. Two bottles sit tall beside him.
“Ulfmaer, what are you doing down here?” The shadow doesn’t respond to my words. As I draw closer, I realise it’s too small to be Ulfmaer. His head hangs but my candle illuminates the single arm he still has, holding a golden ring.
“Ivar, are you alright?”
“That’s not my name,” he says with a brittle voice, his head still slouched downward.
“How much have you had to drink friend?”
“You’re not my friend. All of my friends are dead,” he continues.
“Ivar. Everyone is alright.” He raises his arm, staring at it. He turns his head, looking to where his left should be. He cries out in a mix of rage and pain, slamming his hand into the table.
“My name…” he softens into a mumble,” Jor… mungand. Stormbrinngr. But he died. Jormungand died. Ivar survived.” He shakes. Jormungand tries to stand but stumbles backward and knocks his chair over. As he trips backward, he crashes into the a bottle of ale, pouring it onto the floor beside him.
“You’re the son of Commander Stormbrinngr?”
“The gods have forsaken me.” Jormungand lifts his arm above himself, staring into the ceiling. “You’re going to Sigurd, then I’m coming too.”
“Let me help you up, you need some water and sleep,” I say, looking down at the drunk, pale Jormungand.
Final 3000 words of C5 are still being processed.
~MORE WILL COME~
The Warlock's Fortune: Act One Page 8
