Mark was awoken as something kicked him in the back. It was just a little kick, and not very painful, but it was enough to rouse him. It was pitch dark, save for a few flickering torches. The camp was mercifully quiet. The screaming was done for now.
Mark ached terribly as he sat up. He found himself confronted by a half-pint, white-haired little girl with one hand on her hip and the other holding the leash of a dozy-looking wolfhound.
“What are you?” she asked.
“Mark.” he said. It was the first word he had spoken in a long time. His throat was dry and his lips were cracked and covered in dried blood.
“Why do you live outside, Mark? You’re not a dog.”
“I don’t have a choice.” he said, showing her his shackles.
“Why did daddy chain you up?”
Mark could guess from her hair and eyes who ‘daddy’ was.
“Because I’m a very dangerous man.”
“You don’t look very dangerous.” she scoffed.
“That’s because it’s not a full moon.” he said, eyebrows raised.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what a wolfman is?”
“No…”
“It’s someone who turns into a beast, half-man and half-wolf, when the moon is full. That’s why your father chained me up.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I’ll show you.”
“Go on, then.”
“I can’t today. The moon isn’t full. But come to me when there’s a full moon and I’ll show you.” Sionna looked sceptical, yet intrigued. “What’s your name?” Mark asked her.
“Sionna.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“Thanks. Do you kill lots of people when you’re a wolfman?”
“Oh yes, lots.” grinned Mark.
“What do they look like?”
“Who?”
“The people you kill. Once you’ve killed them I mean.”
“Depends how you kill ‘em. Why?”
“I just wondered. I’ve never seen one before. I’ve heard there’s lots of bodies in the War Pit but daddy doesn’t let me go up there. He says I’m too young.”
“No fair!”
“I know! He doesn’t let me do anything! He just says he loves me too much and doesn’t want me to get hurt. He makes Harmesh follow me around all day to keep me safe and make sure I don’t do anything silly. That’s why I can only explore in the night time. But even then Harmesh stands outside my door at night so I have to sneak out through the window.”
“Your daddy must love you very much to be so protective of you.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t let me do anything fun! I get bored being stuck in Fangmar all day.”
“Well, you know, if you set me free then I can take you there, to the War Pit. I can show you all the gross bodies.”
“That’s not allowed!” she gasped.
“Why not? We’d go at night. You could lock me back up when we got back. Nobody would know.”
“But you’re a dangerous wolfman, you could kill me!”
Mark shrugged. “As long as it’s not a full moon you’ll be safe. Your dog would kill me if I tried to hurt you. Dogs are much stronger than people, because they have four legs instead of two, so they’re twice as strong.”
Sionna looked sceptical. “Hmmm…” she said, turning away. “What if I wanted to get you free? What should I do?”
“Borrow your daddy’s key. It’s on his belt. Don’t tell him I asked you, will you?”
She laughed. “I’d get in so much trouble! I’m not allowed out on my own, and I’m especially not allowed to talk to you.”
“So will you do it?”
“Hmmm….Dunno.” she said. She turned away and walked off back towards Fanghall, her dog following along behind. She stopped, briefly, turning back and glancing at the intriguing wolfman, before tottering off back to bed.
The next day, as the midday sun managed to pierce through the unrelenting gloom, Mark was lying there shivering when he spotted Maedoc coming his way. He carried with him, of all things, a picnic basket. Mark sat upright and glared at him with hateful eyes.
“Don’t give me that look, Mark. I come bearing gifts.” he said, slapping him on the shoulder and sitting down beside him, shoving the basket in his face. At first Mark refused to look. But as the smell of freshly baked bread wafted into his nostrils, he relented and looked in the hamper, which had a leg of ham in it to boot.
“Mmmm, don’t you just love the smell of freshly baked bread? Baked this very morning by my wife’s fair hands. And ham, cured with honey by a dozen virgin Calvii wenches. Or so my chef tells me!” he chuckled. “Don’t look so sullen, Mark. It’s yours. Have your fill. It’s no trick, my boy. Eat. You’ll need your strength for what’s in store today. Eat, eat!”
Mark made no move, though his stomach growled in protest.
“You’re at death’s door, lad. And you can’t kill me if you’re dead, can you? So eat up!”
The vicious bastard had made a fair point. Maedoc held the ham in front of Mark’s face, and Mark, chained up and unable to grab it, leaned in and took a big bite out of it. As he ate from Maedoc’s hands like a dog, the warlord spoke.
“With the weather so sunny, I thought it would be nice to give the men a little entertainment. Something to take their minds off the monotony of day to day life. You know the old routine – slaughter, pillage, rape, day in, day out. They’re eager to see what you can do.”
Maedoc dropped the ham back into the basket and shoved the bread in Mark’s face. He ate feverishly.
“Your skills are legendary, Mark. How many warlords did you kill in the service of that crusty old of king of yours? And now, having murdered and mutilated three of the toughest warlords in Lotheria, your infamy has multiplied!”
“I’ll save the rest for the children, if you don’t mind.” said Maedoc, congenially, and put what was left of the bread back in the basket. He opened up a flask of water and let Mark take a few cool, glorious sips.
“Cheers, old plumb.” said Maedoc as he raised the flask and took a sip of his own. Then he got up and stepped back, beckoning to some Morrowfow who were loitering nearby.
They grinned, and approached Mark with dark looks in their eyes. As they reached him one of them punched him in the temple, sending him sprawling to the floor.
“Easy, boys, easy! We want him fighting fit for the Murder Pit!” beamed Maedoc as his men restrained him. The warlord unlocked Mark’s shackles. Mark, for his part, kept his murderous glare locked on Maedoc throughout.
Two chariots were bought for them. Mark was dragged onto one. Maedoc boarded the other, and his boys joined him. A mob was gathering, come to watch the blood-sports, and they followed on foot as the chariots trundled out of Fangmar and towards the Murder Pit.
The Murder Pit was a small ramshackle coliseum. It was a flimsy-looking structure, with several wooden stands built over a muddy pit not far outside Fangmar. A series of tunnels led into it, where slaves from conquered tribes would be goaded in to kill each other for the entertainment of the warlord and his men. The heads of the dead slaves were mounted on spikes adorning the stadium.
Mark was dragged off his chariot as they reached the pit and taken into one of the tunnels. The Morrowfow grinned, madly, as they dragged him through a series of caves in which slave warriors were imprisoned, lashed and goaded by Morrowfow brutes. Mark was ushered into a cell, the door slammed shut and locked behind him.
Mark sat down on the floor of his cell and met the glares of the Morrowfow taskmasters and unfed savage slaves who had been watching him since he arrived. The Morrowfow taunted him and hurled insults. The slaves in the other cells glared at him with hateful eyes, pointing, gawping, chatting amongst themselves. They had recognised him. The smarter ones put their heads in their hands, and prayed to the spirits that they weren’t going to be sent into the pit with him.
As more and more Morrowfow arrived the pla
ce grew louder. The spectators stamped their feet, hollered and bawled. Mark could feel the ground reverberate beneath him. There were a few warm-up fights before the main event. Mark watched as slaves were rounded up in batches. They were completely naked, lash-scarred and malnourished, and had weapons shoved into their hands before they were thrown into the arena. Some were terrified, shaking, whimpering, praying to the spirits. Others were fired up, baring their teeth and howling war-cries.
When the fights were in session there was a terrible din, punctuated by loud cheers and sometimes boos. The loudest cheers were presumably reserved for when a man met his gruesome end. This seemed to be the case, for loud cheers were shortly followed by a couple of Morrowfow heavies dragging a dismembered body out of the pit. The slaves’ bodies were tossed, unceremoniously, down a pit.
When Mark’s time came half a dozen Morrowfow dragged him out of the cell and threw him into the arena, slamming a wooden gate behind him.
The crowd roared in hatred as they saw him. The stands were full of angry barbarians, who spat at him, stomped their feet, cursed him. Maedoc was sat with his sons opposite where Mark had entered with a big grin on his face.
The pit itself was thick with mud, littered with discarded weapons and body parts that the Morrowfow hadn’t bothered to dispose of. Inside the pit, waiting for him, were a dozen barbarian slaves. They were half-starved, wild-eyed and desperate, carrying an assortment of rusty weapons but otherwise completely naked. There was desperate bloodlust, but also fear, in their bloodshot eyes.
“Give him his weapons!” called Maedoc, and a spear and an axe were thrown down to him, landing in the mud. Mark looked at the weapons with disdainful eyes, then back up at Maedoc. He didn’t move.
“Oh come now, Mark.” called Maedoc. “Surely you’re not going to disappoint all of these punters? You’ve spent your whole life killing barbarians. Don’t back out now. This might be your last chance for some good old fashion slaughter, man to man, sword to sword, eye to eye!”
Mark sniffed. Once again, the cunt was right. He grabbed the weapons, one in each hand, and began glaring at his apprehensive foes.
“Yes!” cried Maedoc, slapping his hands together. “That’s the spirit! There’s some fight in the boy yet! Okay, listen up you whipped dogs,” said Maedoc, addressing the slaves, “you will fight this man, and anyone who doesn’t will be flayed alive in the War Pit!”
Taking his cue, the nearest barbarian began edging towards Mark, hefting an axe double-handed and snarling. Mark stayed where he was. The crowd were hushed in anticipation. Just as the barbarian growled deeply and got set to charge in, Maedoc spoke again.
“Oh, and if you kill him then I’ll flay you alive also. That boy is worth a pretty penny to me!”
The barbarian stopped mid-charge and looked up at Maedoc in confusion. He was an axe’s swing away from Mark, but now he didn’t know whether to strike or not.
Mark decided the matter for him by ramming his spear through his face.
There were cheers – sure, the barbarians hated Mark, but they loved bloodshed, too.
Maedoc hit himself on the head in a ‘doi’ manner. “What was I thinking? Even if you try to kill him, none will succeed. Have at it, boys, if you kill him, nay, if you even graze his fair Darlothian skin, I’ll set you free!”
The barbarians looked at each other for a moment, pensively. Mark pulled his spear free of his victim’s face and stood ready for them. They looked upon Mark with grim, bloody eyes. All would have feared this brutal monster, bane of the Lotherians, but at the same time he was all that stood between them and an even more grizzly fate.
They roared their battle cries and charged in. The carnage began.
One rushed at Mark with a sword. Mark turned it aside with his axe, the weapons clashing with a metallic clang, and he swung the axe around, beheading him.
“Hahaha! Don’t lose your heads, boys!” commentated Maedoc, gleefully.
With each blow, each clash of steel, each spurt of blood, the crowd cheered and bayed for more.
Another man was stopped in his tracks as Mark rammed his spear into his chest. Mark grimaced as he lifted the spear, lifting the impaled man off his feet, and with it he tossed aside the man’s body. He stood ready for the next man, who came with two axes. Mark ducked and weaved past his blows, then swung out with his own axe, hewing his leg, sending him tumbling into a screaming heap.
Another came with a spiked mace and shield. Mark ducked back to avoid the mace. His axe came down, splintering the shield. The mace came again, and Mark rolled aside, ramming his spear into the man’s groin. He fell to the ground writhing in agony.
“Yowee! That one’ll hurt in the morning! I hope his wife’s not watching!”
Mark pulled the spear free and launched it, impaling an onrushing berserker who was spinning a flail overhead, sending him tumbling back. The impact got an ‘oooo’ from the audience.
“Oooof! I think he gets the point!”
Two men came at him at once. One swung wildly with a spiked club. Mark ducked. The other came up behind him with a spear, but the first’s weapon slammed into his head, to much hilarity from the audience. Mark ripped open the club wielder’s neck with his axe. Blood sprayed over him and the two bodies fell at once.
The last four were, understandably, more pensive.
Three of them held spears and shields and were circling around Mark, slowly surrounding him. Mark, for his part, stood still and waited as they closed in. They stood there for a little while once they had surrounded him, building up their courage.
The three men nodded at each other, and with that they roared guttural battle cries and charged in. Their spears thrusted all at once, but Mark moved like lightning to turn them aside. He kicked the shield of one of the spearmen, pushing him back and making him slip in the mud.
The other two thrusted again, but Mark dodged one spear and swung his axe at the other, shearing off the spear’s head.
The third man charged in, but Mark jumped aside and he overran, allowing Mark to whack him in the back of the head with his axe. He flomped to the floor, quite dead.
“Ouch! Can I axe you a question? Did that hurt like hell or what?”
The man with the broken spear dashed off in search of another weapon, leaving the other spearman exposed. Mark knocked aside his weapon and rushed as him, jumping and kicking off of his raised shield. He vaulted over the man and landed behind him, then ducked and cut open up his knees from behind with a sweep of his axe. More ‘oooo’s in appreciation of his athleticism, and a terrible scream from the fallen barbarian, quickly ended by an axe to the face.
Mark looked up and charged full-pelt at the other spearman, who had only just picked up a sword when Mark was upon him. He cut the man’s arm off at the elbow, and as he was mid-yelp, swung his axe across his neck.
Mark stood there for a while, regaining his breath, covered in mud and blood. Then his cold eyes flitted around until they landed on the last slave standing.
The savage was no fool. He knew how helpless his situation was. With tears in his eyes and shaking terribly he threw down his weapons and fell to his knees. Cue boos from around the stadium. Maedoc shot to his feet.
“Do it, Mark! Kill this unarmed man! See how he begs for his life, appeals to your mercy! Show him none!”
“Hmm. Fine.” grunted Mark, beneath his breath. He decided to give the savages something to cheer about. He gave the pitiful dog a good look to judge his distance, and then he launched his axe at him. It whistled through the air before finding its mark. The poor whelp slumped to the floor with the axe lodged in his skull.
This provoked cheers from the onlookers and a standing ovation for Maedoc.
“Good, Mark! Good!” he called, appealing for quiet. “You did not disappoint. You slaughtered those barbarian dogs, and you did it well. But now, allow me to indulge in a little experiment.”
He clapped his hands again, and the wooden gate swung open once more, and out came t
wo brutes dragging a girl between them. They threw her down in the mud. She was shivering, naked and bruised. She sobbed pitifully. She couldn’t have been older than ten.
The Morrowfow watching saw her weakness, and they hated it. They bawled and spat at her.
Maedoc appealed to Mark, giving his foul instruction.
“There she is, Mark. Kill her.”
Mark didn’t move. He watched as the weeping girl struggled to her knees, and looked up at him with utter terror.
Slowly, Mark began to pace his way over to her. He picked up an axe and looked at the crying girl once more.
“No, please…Please don’t…” she pleaded between meek sobs, as Mark approached with slow, purposeful steps, the axe resting on his shoulder, until he was standing over her. He stopped there, his hateful eyes looking up at Maedoc.
“What’s keeping you, Mark?” the warlord taunted. “You dealt with the others briskly enough. But it’s more difficult when they’re little girls, isn’t it Mark? I wonder if you’ve ever killed a little girl before, even a barbarian one. I wonder why you waver, Mark. We are savages! Animals, worse than animals! Surely this girl is no different.”
“Perhaps she reminds you of our humanity. She reminds you that we are not born savage, but are made savage by the world which we inhabit. It is a world of war, pestilence, famine and cold winters. Perhaps she reminds you of the barbarian girl you fell in love with after years of putting us down like dogs…Like vermin…But look into her big, blue eyes, Mark. Does she look like vermin to you?”
Mark looked back down at the poor girl as she wiped away her tears with shivering hands.
Maedoc grinned cruelly. “Perhaps at last, Mark, you have been persuaded by my…”
As he was mid-monologue, Mark swung his axe across her neck, splitting it. Blood sprayed. Her eyes rolled back. Her body fell to the floor a heartbeat later.
There was stunned silence from all, Maedoc included.
What little pity and remorse was left within him clutched at Mark’s heart. He told himself a quick death was merciful. That he was sparing the girl from a far more terrible fate. But he would not give Maedoc the satisfaction of knowing it.
Warlord Slayer Page 21
