Warlord Slayer

by Nicholas Everritt

On they rode through Fangmar. The gathered crowds watched in stunned silence as Maedoc led out his prisoner. The Morrowfow didn’t know what to do except to follow them as far as they could. They stopped at the gates of Fangmar as the horses trotted out into the night gloom.

  “Where are we going?” asked Maedoc once they were clear of the gates.

  “War Pit.” Mark growled.

  Mark’s feud would end the same place it had started, one way or another. On the horses trotted through the sodden, muddy fields and up towards the War Pit. The impaled bodies could be seen silhouetted against the dark blue sky. The rain relented at last.

  “Don’t let her see.” said Maedoc.

  “You don’t want your daughter to see her father’s handiwork?”

  “It’ll give her nightmares.”

  “She’s seen a lot tonight. She’ll have nightmare either way.”

  “Don’t torment her further. I beg you.”

  “Hmm. Alright. Fine.” said Mark, putting his hand over Sionne’s tearful eyes.

  Once they reached the cusp of the War Pit, Mark dismounted. Taking his lead, Maedoc did so too. Mark slapped his horse’s rump and it bolted away, trying to get away from the horrid stench as fast as possible. Maedoc did the same.

  Then Mark knelt down beside Sionna. She was sobbing meekly, but kept her eyes shut fast.

  “You’ve done well. You’ve been brave. Now you’ll need to be brave again. Go back to Fangmar. You’ll have to run. Run as fast as you can. Tell the men that they can come and find us at the War Pit.”

  She nodded her head rapidly, then when Mark let her go she ran off full pelt down the hill, back towards Fangmar, where a posse was already gathering outside the gates with burning torches.

  “Why did you do that?” Maedoc asked.

  “I don’t intend to survive this.”

  “I see. How do you rate my chances?”

  “Slim at best.” said Mark, twirling the dagger in his hand before pointing it towards the pit. “Move.”

  Maedoc did as he was told, trudging towards the hellish grave. He wouldn’t dare attack Mark, not until his men got there. Maedoc had seen his death-dealing first hand, and would not presume to be able to match it. He would have to play the compliant prisoner for now.

  As they staggered down into the foetid corpse-pit the sun began to rise. Deep blue gave way to fiery red, suitably bloody for the occasion. Flies buzzed about in dark formations. The newcomers’ presence disturbed a flock of carrion birds, which flew off in a great black mass. There was the crunch of bone and the squelch of rotting flesh with every footfall. The stench was foul and overwhelming.

  Once they had reach the middle of the pit Mark looked up at the mass of impaled bodies stuck up on tall pikes. Then he looked down at the ground, at the massed corpses, bones and discarded weapons, and picked out an axe that seemed to be in relatively good nick.

  “Here will do.” said Mark after inspecting the axe’s blade. “Kneel down.”

  So Maedoc knelt down, his face now a picture steely resolve. His daughter was safe, and that brought him some comfort. He had always lived by the axe, and now he was to die by one.

  He bowed his head and presented his neck expecting to be beheaded. No such luck.

  Mark paced opposite him and sat on top of an iron helmet.

  Maedoc looked at him, confused at first, then spitefully. Mark said nothing. He simply watched the sun rising from beyond Maedoc’s left shoulder. Maedoc’s eyes flitted about. He spied a sword a couple of paces away. It was nearer to him than it was to Mark. Mark saw him look at it. Then Maedoc’s gaze turned back to him.

  “So here it is. The end.” said Maedoc, his tone moving closer to his usual spiteful mockery. “Your vengeance is complete, and the lovely Hesetti is redeemed.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can never undo what was done to her.”

  “I know.”

  Maedoc snorted. “It’s funny in a way. You went to so much effort to get to me. You killed and mutilated three warlords just to temp me out of Fangmar, to Tiroginus’ moot. That was all for me, wasn’t it?”

  “Partly.” said Mark. “The way I see it is…Those three warlords you mention…Brogan, Aelarix, Tiroginus…I killed them for Darloth, for my king, to redeem myself for my betrayal. So that’s three for the kingdom…” he said, holding up three fingers. “And one for me.” he said, pointing at Maedoc. “That seems fair.”

  “The thegns did not see it that way. You disobeyed your orders and attacked an ally of the crown. They were going to have you hanged for treason and desertion.”

  “You were going to betray them.”

  “But you’d have tried to kill me either way, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Maedoc snorted, shaking his head. “What about your mutilation of the bodies, turning your victims into blood eagles. Was that for the kingdom too?”

  “No. That was for you. I wanted you to know I was coming for you.”

  Maedoc scoffed. “Your quest was misguided. I did not kill Hesetti. I rarely soil my own hands with butchery. It’s my men who impaled her and cut her apart. I didn’t rape her. My men did that. I have always been faithful to my wife. You should be hunting down those men, not me.”

  “You gave the order. That seems like fair revenge to me.”

  Maedoc laughed, grimly. “It’s like I told you. We are all the same. Darlothian. Barbarian. We are all savages, driven by primal emotion. Look at all the blood you have spilt to avenge your lover…Your barbarian lover. You are no less savage than I am.”

  “You’ve convinced me.” said Mark.

  “Really?” said Maedoc, with a cruel grin.

  “Darlothians are no different to barbarians. We are just a different tribe. One that has many enemies.”

  “I’m glad to have finally brought you round to my way of thinking.”

  “And you know what barbarians do to their enemies?” grinned Mark, looking up at the impaled men.

  Maedoc tried one more gambit in search of a quick death. “You would not rather fight like warriors, man to man?”

  “Usually I would. But in this particular instance…No.”

  He saw Maedoc look at the sword again. Mark didn’t move. He just started humming. He hummed the song that Hesetti used to hum to herself, the one that her mother used to sing to her.

  And so the two men waited there, not moving. Mark watched for any flicker of movement from his nemesis. He hoped he was going to do it. He was willing him to do it. But all the while he just sat there humming his tune.

  Maedoc did not disappoint.

  The warlord scrambled for the sword. Mark was on him in a flash, his axe coming down, cutting off the man’s hand just as it reached the hilt.

  Maedoc screamed in agony, falling to the gory ground and writhing around waving his blood-spitting limb. His eyes were wide with shock and pain as he looked upon his stump, and there was terror in them as he looked upon the grim avenger.

  Mark would have to move fast, otherwise exsanguination would rob him of his prize.

  He picked out a good spear, inspecting it for sturdiness and length. Satisfied, he rammed it through Maedoc’s arse and up into his body. The brutalizer cried out in agony, screaming, flailing.

  Heaving, Mark lifted Maedoc up and shoved the bottom of the spear into the ground, which was mostly rotten flesh, and so Maedoc was propped up by it, impaled.

  And so Mark’s work began. He started chopping into Maedoc’s chest with his axe. With each whack there was a terrible wail. Blood spattered all over him as he went about his gruesome craft. Eventually, the cries stopped, but Mark didn’t. He cut open his thorax and ripped his ribs open.

  Only then did he stand back and look upon his good work. As the sun rose behind him, the sky turning blue, there stood Maedoc, impaled and cut open like Hesetti had been, his tortured eyes wide open and his mouth gaping as if to scream even in death.

  Mark sat down in front of the gory totem and breat
hed in the foetid stench of the War Pit. He had done it. His vengeance was complete.

  Fate gave him but a few moments to sit and reflect, to feel the relief of achieving his vengeance, to feel a shiver of giddy excitement, for he knew he would rejoin Hesetti soon enough.

  But before his emotions could truly sink in there came the thunder of hooves, the racket of wheels and a hundred barbarian curses. He saw the tell-tale clouds of dust rising from beyond the pit. The chariots had come.

  Mark took a few moments to find himself some decent weapons. A couple of good axes, shiny and sharp. He found himself a little clearing and readied himself. He took a few deep breaths, in spite of the stench, and shook his head to clear it. Then he started humming Hesetti’s tune to himself.

  At last, over the cusp came the warriors. They charged over confidently enough, screaming war-oaths and battle-cries, but stopped there before entering the pit. They looked upon their warlord, impaled and ripped open. And standing in front of him was Mark, Warlord Slayer, bane of the barbarian tribes, covered in blood and gore, stood poised with two shining axes in his hands.

  The barbarians had gone quiet. Each man looked to the men beside him, none wanting to be the first to meet Mark’s axes. Mark stayed right where he was, humming his tune.

  Eventually they girded themselves, and they came, pacing sheepishly down into the crater, stepping through swollen corpses. Closer and closer they came.

  When they were a few paces away Mark spun the axes in his hands and stood ready to meet them. The barbarians gasped and backed off. All were still once again.

  There was a momentary silence, save for Mark’s humming.

  Then someone took a deep breath and steeled themselves. The first warcry came. Then the second. Then the third. Then, soon, the whole war party was bellowing, trying to drown out their fear as well as Mark’s tune.

  They charged.

  Mark was weary. He was in pain. His body ached and his head swelled with relief.

  He had done right by his king. He had avenged Hesetti. He had done what he needed to do.

  This was it, then. He was ready. Ready to rejoin Hesetti in the afterlife. Ready to die in a most fitting manner. Death by barbarian.

  But he wasn’t going to die alone.