Warlord Slayer

by Nicholas Everritt

  “Get him to do that dance he does!” said one of them.

  “Alright, go on Fuckface!” said Gregor, doing a little dance of his own.

  Fuckface got the message, and set about his dance. It was so weird and ungainly that it had the men in fits of laughter from the get-go. There were tumbles, thrusts, weird expressions, and at the crescendo he would (as always) conclude by lifting his ragged shirt to reveal his shrivelled genitals. By this point the men were falling over themselves laughing.

  “I reckon you’ve earned your bronze.” snorted Gregor between laughs, reaching for his money pouch.

  “Nah wait, not yet, get him to do something else.” said another man. “A dare or something. Something funny.”

  “What like?” said Gregor, intrigued.

  “I dunno. Something sexual.”

  “What?” scoffed Gregor. “What sexual act do you want to see this old man perform exactly, Fimbor?”

  Fimbor was getting a bit red in the face now. “No, not sexual like sexy, but you know, something funny, something gross. Like fuck a pig or something.”

  The other men fell about laughing. “Look, Fimbor, if you want to see an old man fuck a pig that’s your business, but the dance was good enough for me.” said Gregor, taking one of the small bronze currency bars from his pouch and handing it to Fuckface.

  “No way!” beamed one of the other men, patting Gregor on the shoulder and pointing at a newcomer. “It’s…It’s…Buttwort!”

  There was a terrible ‘scree’ as Gregor handed over the bronze. All eyes turned to a second old fart, not dissimilar in appearance, but with a long straight nose, lank grey hair, and bulging eyes that almost popped out of his head. He charged straight for Fuckface, clattering into him and bowling him over. The bronze fell from his hand and clinked on the ground.

  The men made a circle around them, laughing raucously as they watched Fuckface and Buttwort engage in a hilariously inept brawl for the bronze. Butterwort punched Fuckface five times in the face, and with each punch he pulled a different goofy expression. Then Fuckface retaliated, throttling Buttwort, making his face wiggle about madly with a ‘fobfobfob’ noise. The brawl went on for some time as the old loons exchanged blows, until at last Buttwort landed the killer blow, booting Fuckface in the gonads. Fuckface was a picture of silent rage for a couple of heartbeats, his face a caricature of contorted paint. The men held their breath – they knew what was coming next. Fuckface fell to the ground clutching his nads and made a ridiculous ‘dooooiiii’ noise, to much hilarity.

  Looking suitably smug, Buttwort made off with Gregor’s bronze. No matter. They all knew the drill.

  “Here you go Fuckface.” said one of the men, handing him a new bronze bar. “You’ll get that prick next time, I just know it.”

  Fuckface pulled a ridiculous thanks-face and shuffled off with a stupidly low bow, hand still clasped over his todger.

  “What’s all this then, boys?” bellowed Henrik, one of the overseers, who had watched the whole sorry scene unfold but had only now decided to make his presence felt.

  He was a stocky middle-aged man with greying ginger hair. His features were brutish and his expression was stern, but the men knew he was just playing his role as taskmaster – he was a pussycat really. He wore a hauberk, like the others, and had a rarely but memorably used cat-o-nine-tails stuffed in his belt.

  “Oh, it was those damn vagrants again, sir.” said Gregor. “Blasted wall-builders, always coming over here begging for our bronze.”

  “Well if you didn’t keep giving them your bronze, they wouldn’t keep coming would they?” sighed Henrik. “Maybe instead of watching all this carry-on, you should be sharpening up on your swordplay. Unless you’re planning to dupe your foe the next time you’re cornered by a big fucking horny Morrowfow by acting like a damn fool!”

  “Yes, sir. Back to training, sir. Right away, sir.” said Gregor, with a smirk.

  “And how do those hermits keep getting into Skarmjal?” sighed Henrik. “This is supposed to be the strongest hold in all of Lotheria, and those mangy old men apparently come and go as they please!”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them when they next come round, sir. Just in case they try to storm the place.” said Gregor, suppressing a chuckle.

  Before the men could begin their drills again there came the shrill and distinctive wail of a war-horn.

  “Is that one of ours?” asked one of them, hand poised at the hilt of his sword as all eyes turned to the gates.

  “Aye.” said Henrik. “That’s ours alright.”

  The gates were heaved open and a gaggle of warriors came through. They were indeed Albrantes, but they were depleted and exhausted. Some had discarded their helmets and hauberks. A couple of them led mules laden with gear. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen of them in total. The man leading them was particularly tall and muscular, with a blonde beard, a big axe and an ornate plumed helmet.

  “That’s Birkir’s lot.” said Henrik. “But so few have returned, and with so little to show for it.”

  A runner dashed from the gate, through the courtyard and up the steps towards Skarmshall to inform the Warlord of their return. Henrik shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in Birkir’s boots right now.”

  As the men came through the gates everyone else made way for them. They stopped in the courtyard and glugged from flasks of water brought for them by friends and loved-ones. They were quickly ushered away by the sheepish-looking soldiers. They knew they were in for some kind of licking.

  The training shield-bearers stuck around to see how things would unfold. Things might get a little bit tasty, and Birkir’s crew looked suitably apprehensive. Birkir himself stood at the foot of the stairs looking up towards Skarmshall. He stood as tall and impressive and he could, and he was a tall and impressive man, but Henrik saw him gulp as the gold-gilded doors of Skarmshall swung open.

  Out came Warlord Aelarix, and immediately there was complete silence. All eyes – the shield-bearers, Birkir and his crew, the men, women and children who had gathered round – were on her. She was tall, for a woman, but not especially so. She was strong, but again, not remarkably. The glare of her dark blue eyes was famously stern. Her blonde hair fell to just above her shoulders. She didn’t wear a hauberk like the others, but instead wore trousers, boots and a jerkin, and iron-plated gauntlets. Her long-hafted sword, strapped to her back, was famous for the skill with which she wielded it.

  Following her out was Haggorax, a handsome warrior of a similar age who wore a tunic and trousers. His hair was shoulder-length and brown and he had a short beard. He was Aelarix’s lover. He wasn’t just arm candy, though, and he too had a sword on his back. He had been a brave warrior from an obscure tribe before Aelarix had picked him as her lover and he opted, understandably perhaps, for life in her bedroom rather than on the battlefield.

  A few moments of silence followed. Aelarix let the silence linger just long enough to make Birkir especially uncomfortable. She waited until he opened his mouth to address her before immediately interrupting him.

  “Warl…”

  “Where are the rest?” she demanded, firmly, yet betraying no emotion.

  “Warlord Aelarix, the rest of the men died bravely in battle against the cursed Morrowfow.” declared Birkir, with just enough force to be somewhat convincing.

  “I see. I sent you out with forty men, and these are all who return. It must have been a bloody battle indeed.”

  “Aye, my liege. It was.”

  “And where is the plunder?” she said, casting her eye over the mangy mules. She already knew there was none, but she toyed with her prey nonetheless. Birkir’s silence spoke volumes.

  “Surely,” pressed Aelarix, “you have brought me plunder from the Morrowfow villages I sent you to raid?”

  “No, my liege. There is no plunder.” he admitted. “We were ambushed by the Morrowfow dogs before we could reach those villages.”

  “Why? What happened?” asked
Aelarix. He hesitated, so Aelarix shouted at him. “Speak, man! Or I will demote you and question one of your men instead!”

  “We spied a war-party, my liege, emerging from the Grimwold Forest. My men were eager for battle, and so…”

  “So you ordered them to stand firm, and instead of running off to make battle with a war-party, you told them to attack the villages I had identified?”

  “I…No, my liege. I thought that if we could drive off this war-party, it would give us an advantage…”

  “Why must you always disregard my instructions?” seethed Aelarix. “The whole point of a raid is to avoid battle. To take gold, plunder and slaves. And then to leave without a trace, except for the burning villages you leave in your wake.”

  “My…Apologies, my liege.”

  “And the ambush?”

  “There was a…Second war party still in the forest. We couldn’t have known.”

  “No, you couldn’t have.” scowled Aelarix. “But you could have kept your distance and observed the enemy’s movements from afar. You could have waited for them to pass before pressing on and razing the villages I had identified after long and careful consideration. But clearly you are unable to follow even the simplest of instructions. If you cannot lead a simple raid, how can I trust you to be my lieutenant on the battlefield? I cannot, Birkir. You are stripped of your axes and your armour. For now you can work in the kennels. Perhaps my dogs will teach you a thing or two about obedience.”

  Her work done, Aelarix turned back towards Skarmshall.

  Then she heard Birkir throw down his axe, which clattered on the floor, and she stopped dead still.

  “I will not, Aelarix, daughter of a fool and a whore.” he growled.

  There were murmurs and gasps from the crowd. Only Haggorax could have seen it, but a wide smile spread across Aelarix’s face. He himself struggled to suppress a grin. Birkir’s failure had made her furious. But with this show of dissent, he had made her day.

  By the time she turned back she was a picture of stern fury once more.

  “No longer will I take orders from a woman.” roared Birkir. “My grandfather led this tribe into twenty three wars against our rivals clans. And you? You have led us into pacts with those who we once called our enemies. I will stand for it no more. I will seize control of the Albrantes!”

  There was silence, until at last Aelarix gave her response.

  “Then you know what you must do.” she said, in a terrifyingly calm voice.

  “Yes.” said Birkir. “You don’t scare me, wench. I challenge you to a fight to the death.” His voice just about held – if he honestly had no fear, then he was a fool, but his bravado was convincing enough.

  Aelarix began to walk down the steps, and at once everyone else was on the move. Mothers ushered their children into their huts, and those with weak stomachs and tender hearts made themselves scarce. Everyone else headed for the Bloody Circle.

  Birkir was surrounded by his closest pals and toadies, those who would gain the most from him usurping Aelarix, as well as those who couldn’t stomach taking orders from a woman. They spoke encouraging words, and offered him their axes, but he chose to keep his own trusty battle axe.

  Only Haggorax dared walk beside Aelarix.

  The Bloody Circle was a simple thing – a circular stone platform, not more than a foot tall, surrounded by stone blocks used for seating. It overlooked the spectacular mountains beyond. As Birkir and his posse stepped onto the circle everyone else took their seats around it, chattering excitedly. Even Fuckface and Buttwort turned up, sitting in an overlooking tree with grins on their faces, hoping for an afternoon’s entertainment.

  All observers were silent once Aelarix stepped onto the platform.

  “What’s the plan?” whispered Haggorax.

  “There’s no need for a plan. He’s a dumb dog and he’ll die like one.” she replied, and they shared a brief kiss before he stepped off the platform and watched on, arms folded.

  “You’ve got to watch out for that sword of hers.” grumbled one of Birkir’s buddies.

  “I know that!” he growled incredulously. “What else am I going to watch out for? Her lovely blonde locks?”

  “Use your strength.” mumbled another. “One good hit and you’ll knock the sword right out of her hand. Another, and you’ll cut her in two.”

  “Mmmh.” was Birkir’s reply. He starting growling to himself, geeing himself up, whacking his helmet with the blunt end of his axe. He took a big glug of water from a skin that was passed to him, spat another mouthful on the floor and offered a brief prayer to his ancestors. His gang made their way off the platform and formed a gaggle watching on.

  Aelarix slid her sword from its sheath and held it out in front of her.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Birkir.” she said, calmly.

  Birkir took a few big breaths as he sized up his opponent, who was a head shorter than he was and stood five paces away. His big fists gripped the haft of his axe as he held it ready.

  In that brief moment of quiet all you could hear was Birkir’s heavy breaths, the chirping of mountain birds, the rustling of trees and the whistling of the wind.

  Birkir roared a furious battle cry. He charged at Aelarix, who didn’t move until the final movement. He swung his mighty axe, aiming to cut her in half from left shoulder to right waist. But Birkir was laden down by his heavy armour and his blow, thought mighty, was slow. Aelarix jumped aside of it. Unencumbered by heavy armour, she moved like a coiled serpent. There was a spark as Birkir’s axe clashed with the stone ground.

  As Birkir lurched forward his neck was exposed. Aelarix spun on the spot, swiping her sword in an arcing flash. It bit deep, cutting the big man’s head clean off, severing his beard too.

  His head dropped to the floor. The stump spurted blood, which sprayed over Aelarix’s face. She didn’t flinch.

  Then his body flomped to the ground.

  With a flick of her wrist the blood that was on her sword flew off and onto the ground. The stunned onlookers were silent.

  “Since we’re all here,” she said, addressing the crowd, “and now that I’m properly warmed up, if there’s anyone else who would like to be Warlord of the Albrantes, now is the time to say so.”

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  “And what about you boys?” she said to Birkir’s sullen toadies. “Would any of his fuck buddies like to fight me? Come on now, don’t be shy. Who wants to die?”

  Again, no response was forthcoming.

  “Very well.” she said, turning to Henrik as she stepped off the platform. “Get them back to their training. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  “Aye, my liege.” he said with a grin.

  Then she left, followed by Haggorax, who was smiling to himself.

  The rest of the crowd began to disperse and go about their business, with Birkir’s chums left to pick up what was left of him.

  Aelarix washed the blood from her face and sword in a bronze font she had in her bed chamber for just such a purpose. Haggorax sat on her vast bed, backed with elk antlers and covered in pelts and blankets.

  “Will these bone-heads never learn?” she grinned as their eyes met.

  Haggorax smiled back. “It must anger you.”

  “No. I love it.”

  “Killing your own men?”

  “No. Killing my enemies. If they defy my authority then they are my enemies.”

  “Well if you keep this up you won’t have any lieutenants left.” smirked Haggorax.

  “I might as well do for all the good they do me. My biggest, toughest lieutenant couldn’t even handle a simple raid without stumbling into some kind of disaster.”

  She began pacing about, whirling her sword in her hand, fending off imaginary foes. She started slowly at first, as if rehearsing a memorised routine, but gradually she built up speed.

  “More training?” said Haggorax.

  “Yes. I don’t want to get rusty. I’m disappointed Birki
r didn’t put up more of a fight. I could have tried out a few moves I’ve been working on.”

  She swerved aside of an imaginary axe, then sprung up into the air, and as she came back down she drove her sword down through her phantom foe’s shoulder and into his lung.

  “You’re unique.” gushed Haggorax, lying down as he admired his lover’s handiwork.

  “Yes I expect so.” she said, as she ducked aside of a spear and beheaded another phantasm.

  “I’ve never known a woman who fights like you do. Albrante women do not fight at all.”

  Aelarix paused her melee as she held her sword in front of her, admiring the purity of the shimmering steel blade. “Most women live in constant fear. Fear that they will be butchered and raped by raiders. Fear of being married off to a wife-beater. But when I hold this sword…” she said, pointing it straight at Haggorax, “I don’t have to do what I don’t want to do. I do what I want. I don’t have to fuck who I don’t want to fuck. I fuck who I want. I don’t have to marry some Drom head-taker to secure a meagre alliance. I make alliances of my own. I don’t have to fear death. I deal death instead.”

  Aelarix inspected her blade’s razor edge, running her finger gently across it. “At first, once I was old enough to realise the peril a woman faces each and every day of her life, I would carry a dagger with me. Just in case someone tried to carry me away, I always had the option of taking my own life. Better to die on my own terms than to live on theirs. But eventually I realised…Why should the blade be for me? Why shouldn’t death and bloodshed be reserved for those men who would treat me as property? I suppose that’s why, deep down, I enjoy killing these traitorous bastards so much.”

  “Well put, Aelarix.” said Haggorax, pulling back the blankets. “Speaking of fucking who you want to fuck…”

  Aelarix gave it a moment’s thought, then sheathed her sword.

  “Fine.” she said. “But keep it quick. I have to organise a new raiding party since Birkir fucked up the last one.”

  “Tremendous performance as always, Buttwort.” said Fuckface in his native Darlothian, as he and his accomplice clambered up the rocky scree towards their cave homestead.