Warlord Slayer

by Nicholas Everritt

  Tiroginus turned back to his guest with a smile. “Fifty fifty. I don’t like those odds. Not one bit. Do you play chess, Beaumont?”

  “Chess? No.”

  “I don’t get to play often. Few tribesmen have the patience for it. I hear it’s far more popular in Darloth, but it was actually invented here in Lotheria as a way of teaching noble youths the arts of calculation and patience, back when those qualities meant something. These days, most tribes will elect whichever dumb brute has the biggest arms. No offence, Bronmere, there’s a time and a place where strength is a useful asset, but more often, for a warlord, it is strategy which matters most.”

  “I’ve been called a coward and a weakling all of my life, by any number of rivals and usurpers. But where are they now? They are dead, rotting and forgotten, because I outsmarted them. Their insults seem pretty hollow now. And now that the Calvii are the most formidable tribe in all of Lotheria, thanks to my wise rulership, the only people who dare insult me are my enemies, who I will outsmart in turn just like the rest of them.”

  “My point is, Beaumont, I rule my people much like I play chess. Slowly and cautiously. I won’t sacrifice a piece unless I know I’ll be able to take one of my opponent’s in return. I’ll calculate the risks, consider the benefits. And I won’t make a move until I’ve considered all of the consequences. That’s why I won’t gamble on a move where my chances are fifty fifty. I’ll wait until the odds are stacked in my favour.”

  “I’m not ready to die, Beaumont. I want to die in my bed with all of Lotheria united under my banner. To erase even the smallest possibility that this murderer mighty actually succeed, I need him dead. I have my own men in Lotheria. Hunters, trackers and head-hunters, scouring the land from here to the ocean, in every hold, every territory. But I don’t have men in Darloth. That’s why I need you and your crew.”

  “Very good.” said Beaumont. “If he’s in Darloth we’ll find him, and we’ll kill him. You know my price.”

  “That I do.” said Tiroginus. “You’ll get half now, half when you bring me Mark’s rotting corpse. If he should befall some other tragedy and die anyway, or if I should apprehend him in Lotheria, then you may keep the half that I have already given you as a token of good faith.”

  “Fair terms, Warlord Tiroginus.” grinned Beaumont, and the deal was done.

  Mark, sat upon his horse, looked up at the ruins of the Great Wall. It had once been a mighty wall which sat between Darloth and Lotheria, closing off the land of the wall-builders from their savage cousins. Over the years the defences had waned. Fewer and fewer men had manned the wall and the many border forts which punctuated its length. Parts of the wall had been scavenged by nearby farmers, its stone stolen to build their huts and stables. For the past three years it had been deserted entirely, save for the bandits and vagrants who had set up camp in its ruins.

  Rain poured down unrelentingly from the oppressive grey sky. Darloth was a famously sodden land. Mark had to shield his eyes from the downpour as he looked up at the ruined fort before him, and what little remained of the wall either side of it. A rusted portcullis stood open to him. Mark kicked his steed, and the horse trotted in, head bowed and depressed like its rider.

  Mark took little pleasure in returning to his homeland. It was safer than the wildlands of Lotheria, but only just. Since the thegns had shut the doors of Tirigast it had been left abandoned, and was raided by marauding Lotherian tribes from without and roving bands of Darlothian bandits from within. But what really perturbed Mark as his horse lumbered through the portcullis and into the ruined fort was the sense of guilt and shame which built within him.

  In truth Mark had little love for the Darlothian people. Raised by the thegns in Tirigast, and the King himself, he had spent more time amongst the wealthy elite of Darloth than its common people. He had little time for the meek orderlies, cooks and washer-women who staffed Tirigast. He cared not for the common foot soldiers who were mustered to do battle in times of need. He felt little kinship for the fearful farmers and shepherds who populated Darloth beyond Tirigast’s mighty walls. You would not have called Mark a patriot.

  But he had always felt loyalty to those men who had raised him – the thegns, and the King in particular. The men who had taken him in as an orphan child and tempered him into a potent weapon to be unleashed upon their barbarian enemies. And though he was ambivalent towards his countrymen, he had always shared their burning hatred of the barbarians beyond the Great Wall.

  Mark saw the flickering of a campfire from inside the ruins of one of the towers, providing just enough shelter for a gang of vagrants inside. They glared at him suspiciously as he passed, making his way through the wreckage of the once-proud fort, and onwards into Darloth.

  Pressing on, his horse trudged across a once finely-cobbled road, now broken, flooded, and dotted with ditches and puddles. It led between muddy fields and sodden hills, dotted with stone huts and farmhouses, with forests in the distance and mountains on the horizon.

  In places he passed the ruins of farms, razed by savages perhaps, or merely abandoned by their owners. Now and then he saw plumes of smoke rising from distant homesteads and villages as they were burned down and pillaged. Darloth was a lawless place.

  At one point Mark came across a mugging in the road. Three Darlothian bandits were roughhousing a hunch-backed old shepherd. One of them held the reins of the shepherd’s mule, laden with what little he had in the world, while the other two kicked the poor man as he lay in a puddle trying, meekly, to defend himself. Ravens perches on a dead, leafless tree overlooking the scene.

  If it had been out of his way Mark might not have lifted a finger. But since they were in his path he took one of the axes from his belt. As soon as the bandits saw the dark rider, and spied the glint of his axe, they hurriedly grabbed what they could from the mule’s packs and ran off across one of the boggy fields.

  By the time Mark reached him the shepherd was on his feet again, stroking the nose of his mule. He looked up at Mark as he passed, at first suspiciously, and then staring at him with hateful eyes. As he went past, Mark heard the man spit at him.

  His reputation preceded him. His cold eyes, the scar, the axes, the dark garb…They gave him away as the famous traitor who had abandoned King Tiberix in his time of need.

  The rain came down unrelentingly. Wet to the bone, Mark began to shiver. His stomach growled, unfed for a day. After weeks spent shadowing Brogan’s raiders and staking out Aelarix’s hillfort, he ached from sleeping in makeshift bivouacs and barns. As he saw a farmhouse come into view atop a nearby hill, he relented. A night in a real bed was in order. He turned his steed off-road and set off towards the farmhouse.

  As he neared he saw that the door was open. In the doorway an old man was sat smoking a pipe and looking out. He saw Mark coming and said something to someone inside.

  As Mark drew closer he got off his horse and led it by the reins towards the farmhouse, his feet squelching through mud with every footstep. Then he stopped where he was. Someone had passed the old man a crossbow, and he was sat aiming it squarely at his chest.

  It would take more than that to put Mark off the prospect of a warm meal and a comfortable bed. He pressed on.

  “Come no closer.” called the old farmer once Mark was close enough to hear him over the din of the downpour.

  Mark stopped where he was. “I’m looking for food, shelter and a bed. I will pay you well.”

  The farmer looked him up and down, suspiciously. “We don’t want no bandits ‘ere.”

  “I’m no bandit.”

  “A soldier then, are ye?” he said, seeing Mark’s axes. “We don’t like soldiers much round these parts either. They rock up where they like, eat us farmers out of house and home and then leave without fair payment…Last time I let a soldier into my home, he carried off my daughter and married ‘er.”

  “Who is it, Hlem?” bawled an old woman, who waddled up behind the old man’s chair.

  “Some soldie
r. Wants our food.”

  The old woman gave Mark a look that could kill. “That’s no soldier, Hlem. That’s the traitor! See the scar?”

  “Aye, Miriam. I see it now.”

  “Be off with you, scum!” shrieked Miriam. “Or my husband will put a bolt in you!”

  “You know who I am.” said Mark, addressing her. “Then you also know that threatening me is a bad idea. In fact, I am now going to threaten you. You will let me in. You will give me food, mead and a bed. And you will take fair payment for it. Otherwise, you can answer to my axes.”

  Hlem huffed and lowered his crossbow. “You young boys are all the same. Put an axe in your hand and you think you tell everyone else what to do. No respect, none at all!”

  “We have a deal, then.” called Mark. “I’m going to use your stable.”

  Mark stabled his horse and went to join the old couple. Hlem was sat at the kitchen table waiting for him, smoking his pipe. His squinting, distrustful eyes followed him into the room and watched him as he sat down. Mark pulled the axes from his belt and put them on the table, just to remind them who was in charge.

  Miriam was at the stove stirring something. She shot some almighty glares at Mark whenever she lifted her head out of the brass pot, and muttered curses beneath her breath.

  “Erik, pour the man some mead!” she screamed, and their son poured some mead into a wooden cup. He was a shy looking lad, about eighteen years old, with long lank hair. His hand shivered as he carried the cup over to the table, and he put it down far enough away from Mark that he couldn’t reach out and grab him. When his big, brown eyes met Mark’s icy stare he looked away, sheepishly, and shuffled away from the table.

  Mark picked up the cup and downed the mead with a single swig.

  Hlem tutted and shook his head. “Good mead’s wasted on you.”

  Mark then took a handful of bronze toques from his money pouch and plonked them down on the table. Hlem looked over them as he chewed on his pipe.

  “Fair payment, aye. For one night’s food and shelter. But you’ll be on your way come sunrise. It wouldn’t do for me and my family to be seen harbouring traitors, now.”

  Mark grunted in response.

  “I wouldn’t even have given you the courtesy of the one night if you weren’t threatening to cut me head off!” the old farmer insisted.

  “A traitor…In my house! Unbelievable…” moaned Miriam as she ladled some strew into a bowl. She stormed over to the table and spat in the bowl, right in front of Mark, before plonking it down on the table in front of him.

  Mark met her hateful stare. Famished after weeks in the wilderness, it would take more than an old moo’s phlegm to put him of his stew. He lifted the bowl to his lips and began drinking the meaty juice, and then fed the fatty pieces of meat into his mouth with his bare hands, deliberately ignoring his cutlery. Miriam gagged in effrontery.

  Then he took off his muddy boots and put them on the nice clean table just to really piss her off. She stormed off upstairs spitting curses.

  Hlem sighed as he put away his pipe. “I’d better go join her before she gets in an even bigger strop. Boy, send this man to bed when he’s done eating. Don’t let him steal anything.” he said to Erik as he heaved himself up and hobbled towards the stairway.

  “You’ve got nothing worth stealing, old man.” said Mark, between mouthfuls. “And besides, you really think this boy could stop me?”

  “I know you’re a traitor, Mark of Darloth, but I never heard you was a murderer too.” scoffed Hlem as he patted his son on the shoulder and headed upstairs to join his wife.

  “No, you’re right there old man.” Mark called after him. “I only kill savages.”

  Mark took his time in finishing off his meal, ignoring the boy, who stood there looking down at his feet. Then he licked his fingers and held up his cup. Erik got the idea, and went to take it from him to get him a refill.

  Erik gasped as Mark grabbed him by the wrist.

  “I want to talk to you, boy.” he said in a low growl, fixing his eyes on Erik’s. “Are you a good rider?”

  “Y…Yes. I can ride.” he stammered.

  “Good. I want you to deliver a message for me. You’ll be well paid for it. There’s a man called Hagar who hunts where the forest meet the mountains just north of here. It’s about a day’s ride. I’d do it myself, but I don’t know this man, and from what I hear of him he won’t take kindly to being tracked down by an armed stranger. I don’t know exactly where his hut is, so you’ll need to ask around the locals. When you find him, tell him I’ll meet him in Mogg’s Pit three days from now. I want to speak with him, and I’ll pay him for the inconvenience. Is that clear?”

  “I can’t, sir. My father will be angry…I have stablework to do.”

  “Here.” said Mark, producing a golden necklace from his money pouch. It was of Lotherian make, finely decorated with miniature figurines and set with blue stones. “Your payment. You could buy a whole stable full of plough-horses with this. Your father won’t be so angry them, will he?”

  “No, I suppose not…” said the boy, timidly.

  “Or you could give it to a girl. Give a necklace like this to a farm girl and she’ll have to repay you somehow, you catch my drift, boy?” said Mark, slapping him on the rump. He blushed. It seemed to do the trick of convincing him though.

  “Alright, I’ll…” he said, reaching out for it, but Mark pulled it away.

  “I’ll be leaving Darloth the way I came in. I will return here after I’ve met with Hagar, and I’ll give you your payment then. That way, I’ll know the job’s been done.”

  “I wouldn’t cheat you, sir.” insisted Erik.

  “No, I expect not. Because if you did, I’d cut you in half.”

  Erik looked down at his feet again. “Alright. I’ll go first thing…”

  “You’ll go now.” Mark instructed. “Take my horse. It’s the black one. Lotherian breed. It’s bigger and faster than the starving nags I found in your stable.”

  Erik thought about it for a moment, then nodded, and went to put on his hood and cloak.

  “The bedroom’s through there.” he said to Mark, then he opened the door, looked out upon the sodden fields and the crashing downpour, took a deep breath, and headed out.

  Mark trudged his way through the snow as a snowstorm roiled around him. The wind wailed and his skin stung from the cold. The sky was black, dense cloud obscuring the light of the moon. He covered his eyes with a gloved paw as he approached the tavern, and held the bear skin he wore close to his body.

  Mark was relieved to get inside and shut the heavy door behind him. The eyes of the staff and punters turned to him briefly as he pulled down his bear’s head hood before their attentions turned back to their drinks.

  Mogg’s Pit wasn’t the nicest of taverns, but it was welcomely warm given the conditions outside, and it was the only tavern within miles of these sparsely-populated Darlothian hills. It was big enough, with a warming fire near the bar, and tables and chairs scattered about. Stairs led up to the second storey where people could board.

  One man tended the bar. A wench was sat at the bar looking bored. Three men, peasants by the look of them, were playing cards by the fire. Their crossbows lay on nearby tables. Even peasants armed themselves in these turbulent times. In the far corner a man sat alone eating a leg of lamb, a hood pulled up over his head.

  Sat on a table alone and apart from everyone else was another man. He wore animal pelts and had long black hair and a bushy beard. His skin was weather-beaten and scarred. He sat there smoking his pipe, his tankard of ale sat on the table in front of him alongside his loaded crossbow. He looked every bit the hunter-tracker that Mark was expecting to find.

  Mark approached him. “Hagar?”

  “Mmmh.” he growled. “Go and hang up your bear skin.” he said, pointing his pipe towards a clothes rack near the entrance. Mark did as he was told, hanging up his pelt and taking a seat opposite the hunter.

 
Hagar had, meanwhile, beckoned for the bar-wench. She was a blonde woman who might have been pretty once but was clearly well beyond her best years.

  “An ale for my friend here.” said Hagar.

  The wench raised her eyebrows in bored acknowledged and went to the bar and started chatting to the guv’nor, who began pulling Mark’s ale. The barman was a scrawny, rat-faced fellow with dark, lank hair.

  As the pint was being poured the two grim men didn’t say a word to each other. They took a moment to size each other up, and note where the other man was carrying his weapons.

  The drink came and the wench plonked it down on the table, ale spilling out over the rim, before heading back to her seat at the bar.

  Mark took a glug. “You know why I’m here?”

  “I can guess.” Hagar said in a growly tone. “News travels. You’ve killed two warlords already, now you want a third. To get to him, you want to do what I did.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How did you hear of me?”

  “I heard your reports being read to the King while I was his Champion.”

  Hagar had been a spy who lived undercover in the court of the Varuspikts for four years. Using his intel, King Tiroginus kept abreast of development and alliances within Lotheria and, ultimately, ambushed the Varuspikts as they led an incursion into Darloth. They were wiped out completely, and the Darlothian army demolished their tribal homelands. The tribe no longer existed. Hagar then retired from his life as a spy to became a hunter. Nobody knew for sure why he had retired so young, but a retirement of his choosing was just reward for such fruitful service to the crown.

  “Okay. I can help you. For a price.” said Hagar.

  Mark handed him a pouch under the table. Hagar inspected its contents. A generous selection of gold, silver and bronze jewellery – torcs, broaches, rings, necklaces and so on.

  “This looks well made. Is it Albrante?”

  “Could be.” shrugged Mark. “I lose track of whose territory I’m in.”

  “Who’s the owner?”