She clear didn’t recognise him as the traitor who had betrayed Tiberix. That was good. It should simplify things. “A soldier. Yes.”
“Alright.” she said, clearing the things away. “I’m not going to force you to stay here and heal up properly, but if you don’t you might just find yourself crawling back here in a week or two. And I’ll make you pay again, you know.”
Mark nodded slowly. He would have to be patient. “Fine.” he huffed.
“Now go get some rest.” she insisted.
Early the next morning Mark was sitting on his bed with a knife in his hand. Something had occurred to him during the night. If he was going to be holed up here for two weeks, now would be the ideal time to begin preparing his disguise. He was already growing a fairly impressive beard and his hair was getting longer. The next step would be to cut his face open so it looked like he had been mauled by a bear.
Mark held up the tin pan in front of his face. He could just about see his reflection in its shiny metal bottom. He held the knife poised to do the deed. He just needed a few moments to gee himself up.
“Right. Okay. Uuuuurgh.” he sighed, before setting to work.
He was almost done by the time Alena came in with his breakfast. She screamed as she saw him with a knife pressed against his face, blood dripping down his chin and onto his bare chest. She dropped his breakfast and the wooden bowl clattered to the ground, spilling porridge all over the floor. Mark shot up and held the knife out in front of him, thinking at first she might have been an intruder.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed.
“You don’t understand. This is very important.” Mark insisted.
“Are you mad? Are you fucking mad?”
“No, it makes perfect sense. I’m going to have to wait for my leg to heal anyway, so I thought…”
“So you thought why not cut apart your own face while you’re at it? Right, you’re a psychopath and I’m not having you in my home. Where’s that fucking crossbow…”
“Wait wait wait, just give me a minute to explain.”
Alena gagged, a hand over her mouth. “Fine. This had better be good.”
“It’s a disguise.” grinned Mark, quite pleased with the cunningness of it all.
Alena put her head in her hands. “They’re going to get infected. You’ll get another fever. I’ve got to stitch them up.”
“Ah no. You can’t do that. Then it won’t look like I was mauled by a bear.”
“Why do you want to look like you were mauled by a bear?” she said, exasperated.
“Because the man I’m trying to kill knows I have a scar, but he doesn’t think I was mauled by a bear.”
“The man you’re trying to kill? So you’re a brigand? A bandit?”
“No. An assassin…Of sorts.”
Alena shook her head in disbelief.
Mark shrugged and tried to compromise. “Alena…I won’t allow you to sew up the wounds. But if you can prevent them from getting infected, then I’ll allow it.”
Alena let out an exasperated sigh. “Well that’s awfully generous of you.”
“No need to get testy.”
“Testy! You haven’t seen testy yet…When I get testy you’ll know about it!” she snapped. “Alright. Fine. I’ll…Put some aldersleaf on it.”
“Hmm. Good.” said Mark, as something occurred to him. “Alena, you seem to be a knowledgeable woman…”
She sighed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since my husband died.”
“If I wanted to get a tattoo, how might I go about that?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m playing no part in this…”
“Oh, Alena…” said Mark, before she could leave. “I am sorry that my appearance shocked you. I apologise.”
She signed. “Ok.”
“And can you get me some fresh porridge? You dropped mine on the floor.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable.” she snapped as she left.
Eventually, once she got used to his gruff demeanour and psychotic undercurrent, Alena and Mark got along relatively well. They ate three meals a day together in the kitchen, where they would chat, and Alena would gradually squeeze more blood from the stone, mainly just to satisfy her own curiosity. Mark was taciturn, sticking to titbits about his life and circumstances, never sharing more than he had to. For his part he enjoyed chatting with her. It had been a long time since he had friendly company.
At first Mark spent the days and nights resting, but he was pent up and impatient. As soon as he felt able he tested out his leg to see how it would hold up. He would practice his axe-play on the porch outside the hut. The first time he tried it he hobbled about in an ungainly fashion as his leg protested every effort. His first attempts ended in frustration and a great deal of swearing, but Alena preached patience, and sure enough given time he was able to put his full weight onto his leg without wincing, though there was still some lingering pain.
Eventually he was almost back to his full potency. Whenever he strode around outside, bare-chested and whirling his axes, Alena would find some chore or other excuse to go out there with him and watch from a respectable distance. Mark, about as sharp as a pebble in these matters, didn’t think anything of it.
He helped Alena out with various tasks around the shack. Washing up, hanging up the washing, that kind of thing. He offered to go out with her when she went out trapping, but she declined. He was the one who was paying her, after all. She did let him chop wood for her now and then, and suggested that he might do it topless to keep himself cool. It’s important not to overhead when you’re recovering after all.
Alena lived an isolated life for the most part. She lived within her means and managed to get by on her graft and wits alone. She grew some crops, collected some berries, trapped some rabbits and so on. She even had a few pigs and goats. It was a fairly peaceful and uneventful existence. She always had enough food to get by, and she sold whatever was left over to passers-by and the men who farmed the nearby fields.
She hadn’t had trouble from barbarians, who seldom ventured so far into Darloth, and when they did there were more juicy pickings than an isolated shack half way up a mountain.
She was more worried about brigands. The people had been abandoned by the thegns, left to their own devices. Hunger and greed drove some to crime. She had her crossbow, but that wouldn’t be much use against a band of rogues. She’d built herself a bunker she could hide in if they came. More than anything, she was ready to abandon her home and her livelihood if it came to it. It was a peaceful life, she said, but not one worth dying for.
She told Mark about her husband, who had been a hunter, who had died when he was trapped on the cliff during a storm and fell to his death four years ago. Since then she had got along on her own. He was a gruff man, she said, but with a good heart. Mark reminded her of him.
By the time their last night together came they had grown friendly enough for it to be a bittersweet occasion. They were sat on her bench looking out over the wilds of Darloth, stars twinkling in the sky, the moon shining bright, and their fire roaring. They drank Alena’s homemade mead as they chatted.
Thinking he would never see her again, Mark felt he could open up to her. So he told her his story. His past as the King’s Champion, Hesetti, her death, and his quest for redemption, but also his ultimate desire for revenge.
Alena listened patiently. She could see the pain in his eyes as he told his story, staring distantly into the fire. She put her hand on his.
“It won’t bring her back. It won’t bring you peace.”
“No.” agreed Mark.
“I can understand you wanting to serve your king. They’ve sent you to kill enemies of the crown. You’re a soldier. So you must do it. But to then seek out vengeance for vengeance’s sake?”
“I must. After what he did to her. I have to make it right.”
“Who are you avenging? Her, for having her life taken away? Or yourself, for th
e pain he has caused you?”
Mark shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Both, maybe.”
Alena sighed. “You’re a good man, Mark. I think so, anyway. You’ve seemed good in the short time I’ve known you. You abandoned everything for love. I can understand that. It is a powerful, wonderful thing. And I understand better than anyone the pain that comes when you lose that wonderful thing, the person who made your life feel worth living. If you’re hunting these men through guilt…”
“Guilt.” scoffed Mark. “No. I don’t have the decency to feel guilt. I was right to abandon my king. I spent three years with Hesetti, and I was so happy that I never regretted that decision, and I never will. And as for what happened to her…I don’t know. Maybe I could have prevented it. Maybe not.”
Alena sighed. “I just wish I could comfort you somehow.”
Mark turned to her. Their eyes met. She leaned in closer. Her eyes were about to close.
Mark grunted and turned away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s ok.” he said. “No offence. You’re very beautiful.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“But…Well, look at this place. And look at you! It’s ridiculous.” laughed Mark.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you couldn’t have picked a more perfect setup. A beautiful widow in her idyllic mountainside lodge. It’s as if fate has conspired to tempt me into giving up my cause.”
“What do you mean?” she laughed.
“I mean, if I were to forget my duty to my king, and above all my desire for vengeance, then we could settle down together and live in peaceful isolation, just like I used to with Hesetti. Things would feel strange at first, but I would fall in love with you, and you would fall in love with me. We would be happy together. Just image that. Happiness! Despite everything we’ve lost. We’d always remember the ones we loved, and we’d look forward to the day we meet them again in the afterlife. But in the end, we’d be happy.”
She took his hand and looked deep into his eyes. “So why not stay? Why not give up your quest for vengeance, which will bring you no peace. Why not choose happiness?”
“I’m sorry.” said Mark, solemnly. “I cannot choose happiness. I choose revenge. Revenge is the only thing that’s left of Hesetti. It’s the only thing that remains of her on this earth, the woman I love. Just her bones, and her vengeance. That is what drives me on.”
“Are you sure, Mark? Is it not the grief talking? Perhaps what really drives you is a desire for it all to be over – all the pain, all the memories. Are you just pressing on in search of an honourable way to die?”
Mark gave a weak smile. “I will push on with my quest to the bitter end. And if I meet my end, then so be it.”
Alena sighed, and then kissed him softly on the cheek. “I won’t pretend to understand your need for revenge. But it’s your life. You live it how you please. But if…I don’t know. If you find yourself in some sodden field somewhere, surrounded by barbarians, cold and alone…Just know that vengeance isn’t your only option. You can have me instead. You can choose happiness.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and they sat there in silence for a while, holding hands and looking at the stars. Eventually, Alena spoke.
“Will you at least be with me tonight? Will you take me to bed?” she said, softly.
Mark chuckled. “No, I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I will never leave.”
Chapter Ten: Warlord Maedoc
Mark’s head slammed into the mud once again. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d been beaten down by the baying Morrowfow mob, but he had staggered back up again each time. Twelve maybe. This one was going to be a struggle.
His naked body ached all over. He was bruised. His nose was smashed. Blood and mud covered his face and body. He gasped a few wheezing breaths as he lay there in the mud, rain thundering down on him. He tried to crawl onto his hands and knees, but a kick to the ribs put paid to that, and he slipped back down into the mud again.
The din of the mob rang in his ears. He was surrounded by black-painted Morrowfow warriors, who were taking it in turns to lay into him with fists and feet. They whooped and hollered, spat at him, shouted in his ear. Surrounding them was a massive crowd of onlookers. Warriors, foul-mouthed women dressed in rags who pointed at him and cursed, rabid children, elders laughing madly.
“Let the poor boy stand.” called Maedoc over the tumult. He was grinning from ear to ear, sat upon a throne that had been brought outside so he could sit and watch. His two boys sat beside him, one ten and the other a little younger, laughing cruelly and shouting taunts, bare-chested and drenched by the rain, their long hair as pale as their father’s.
Two of the warriors grabbed Mark by the arms and forced him to his feet. Once he was upright they stood back, and they and their comrades laughed as Mark swayed on his feet, barely able to stand.
They were in Fangmar, Maedoc’s infamous hill-fort. It was a cesspool of filth and mud. All around them were shabby huts. The populace was wild and malnourished. And all the while the rain poured down from the dark grey clouds, the din of the rain making even the baying of the savages difficult to hear. Mark was in barbarian hell.
At the very top of the hill was Maedoc’s hall, Fanghall, which unlike the other huts was finely crafted, tall and impressive. Mark had enough time to glance over the horizon, at the distant hills, and he could just about make out the swarms of carrion and impaled bodies that marked out the War Pit dug into the tallest of them.
He wasn’t given any more time to admire the scenery as the mob laid into him once again. A fist smashed across his jaw. Another punched him in the gut. Someone punched him in the base of the spine. One of them kicked him in the groin, making his grasp and bend double. An uppercut sent him sprawling to the ground for, at a best guess, the thirteenth time. As he lay there, writhing, the men started kicking him while he was down.
“Boys, boys, boys, come now.” said Maedoc, standing up and strolling over. The warriors backed off with bloodthirsty grins on their faces and evil intent in their eyes. “Let’s give the man a rest. Time to see if the famous Mark of Darloth is feeling a little more talkative.”
As Mark lay half-comatose in the mud and rainwater, Maedoc knelt beside him and spoke in his cruel, sinister, mocking tone.
“My my. You’ve taken quite a beating, Mark. My men hate your guts. Try not to resent them too much. If you saw things from their point of view, perhaps you would agree with them.”
“You wall-builders like to think of yourselves as a breed apart from us ‘savages’. You think yourselves civilised. You think we’re animals. It is this arrogance which makes us hate you as we do.”
“For what is the basis of this arrogance, Mark? Have you ever stopped to think about it? Do you think a few stone walls makes one people civilised, and the others, who live in huts behind wooden walls, savages?”
“Are our people really so different? When you defeat your foes in battle, do you not slaughter their menfolk, rape and enslave their women, butcher their children, burn their homes and plunder their farms? Of course you do.”
Maedoc put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. It took all of Mark’s strength to crane his neck and look into the eyes of the man he hated most in all the world.
“We are animals, Mark. But so are you. So are your people. The difference is, we know what we are and we embrace it. That is why you hate us so much. We remind you of your true selves, your inner nature. We show you what you really are.”
“I will show your people the error of their ways. Lay their folly bare. How long will your thegns remain civilised when they are besieged in their castle and starved out? How long will Darlothian resolve last when farmers have their daughters stolen away to warm our beds? When their crops are burned and the land sewn with soil? How long until your people descend into madness and butchery? How long will it be until
you are the barbarous ones, and we, in our wooden huts and hill-forts, are the more civilised?”
“Come on Mark, what have you got to say for yourself?” he asked, grabbing Mark’s face. “Don’t be boring. Come on Mark, parley with me. Still angry about your pretty little bird, your beautiful blood-eagle?”
Mark spat in his face. Maedoc looked taken aback at first, but as the phlegm and blood was washed off by the downpour he grinned more cruelly than ever.
“I admire your grit, Mark, but this is only the beginning. I will break you, and send you back to your masters a lame, whipped dog. But I’m not going to kill you. No. That would be far too merciful.”
Maedoc strolled back towards his sons, who were shouting at Mark like the onlookers, jabbing their fingers at him, baying for his blood.
“Time for a whipping, boys!” declared Maedoc, to cheers.
One of the men brought him a bull whip, grinning with glee. Two others lifted Mark onto his knees. They grabbed hold of his arms and presented his back to Maedoc.
Mark gulped down deep, wheezing breaths, clenching his fists as he braced himself.
The lash bit, shearing flesh, a bloody gash erupting in his skin. He couldn’t stay strong. He screamed uncontrollably, then began panting pitiful breaths as the pain lingered. Rain mingled with the blood pouring from his back.
“What do you say, lads? Another?” grinned Maedoc, to his boys.
“Yes! Yes, daddy, do it again!” his boys squealed.
The whip bit once more. Another wound opened up. Mark screamed, nearly feinting from the pain.
“Let me have a go, daddy!” pleaded his eldest.
“Patience, son, you are too small for a whip of this size.” said Maedoc. “But take note of my technique, for a good leader is quick to the lash, and miserly slow to the soup ladle. Raise the whip slowly, and bring it down fast, like so.”
Another crack, another weeping gash. Mark had run out of energy to scream. He went limp.
“That will do for today.” said Maedoc, handing the whip over to one of his toadies. There was an ‘awwww’ from the crowd. “Come, be patient. I don’t want to kill the boy. Where would be the fun in that? Chain him up, boys!”
Warlord Slayer Page 19
