WHEREVER KING TANCRED APPEARED, he made sure he came with superior numbers. Lucky Kyr was refining the newly dug trenches for the catapults and ballistae to set up in front of Skybridge. But this wasn’t Jarnsaxa Ornsdottir’s camp anymore. Since his arrival that morning, it clearly was King Tancred’s. The bright and uniformly colored brigade that accompanied the king overshadowed the multi-layered warband Lucky Kyr had been part of since he was a kid. He’d learned to memorize the banners and participants of the warband early on, to be taken into their ranks one day. But this was a whole other league.
Lucky Kyr spotted the artillery corps nearest to him, waiting to take up the positions with their heavy machines, overseen by Snar the Skillful. On one flank, marksmen had set up their tents in several platoons: Majni the Trusty’s bowmen, Ollrod’s rangers, crossbows under Abbard the Lonely’s command, Alana Paige’s and Sash the Tinker’s archers. Behind were the ever reliable foot-sloggers, the pole-arm platoons on which the marksmen had to count when withdrawing from enemy attacks: Valka Magnusdottir’s halberdiers, Grimvar Ironhand’s spearmen, Galmar Bear-claw’s glaive-wielders. Then the whole company of barbarians, who followed no strict tenet of weapon branches, and instead used what each individual had most grown used to in melee. Vipir the Unseen’s tunnelers, Mabon Reaper’s axe-warriors, Jackal Shroudreaper’s pit-fighters, Kristen Rain’s Red Devils, and most notorious of all, the berserker circle. This was also the order of glory and the units in order of preference for Lucky Kyr. Jarnsaxa Ornsdottir’s riders were out of bounds, as even he was too old to start with the training in the saddle. The same went with the smaller specialist factions. But he looked up to all platoon leaders as idols. If he got the chance to impress one of them during the next days, he would take that chance.
Lucky Kyr commenced digging on the slope that was separating Skybridge from the new siege camp. He was getting close to the boundary stone sticking out of the dirt on the trench’s parapet. The intention of such stones was to be a warning. They were arranged at a distance from Skybridge’s walls to guarantee safe work. The stone told Lucky Kyr he was on the safe side and out of reach of Skybridge’s weapons. Despite the height of its balustrade, Skybridge’s wall offered the only place for small war machines that were lacking the range the bigger, ground-based ones were packing.
A shadow on the parapet made Lucky Kyr blink. He laid aside his spade and held a hand over his screwed up eyes. There was a figure strolling over the parapet, outside the safety boundary, in weapon’s reach. Its broad silhouette undoubtedly resembled that of a Vacomani. Lucky Kyr was too afraid to yell at him but then remembered quickly. This might be a chance to catch someone’s attention.
He swiftly climbed up the trench-wall and ran over to the warriortrespassing on the boundary stone.
The man turned when Lucky Kyr caught his hand and pulled him back. He had no fear. He followed the boy into the safety of the trench-line nonetheless. When Lucky Kyr turned to his companion, he realized it was not fearlessness he saw in his eyes, but something different. It was madness.
The warrior pressed the palm of his hand against Lucky Kyr’s wide-opened mouth and chopped his machete into his neck. Lucky Kyr made a slight rasp before a second, more intense chop severed his head from his body. Like a trophy, the warrior held Lucky Kyr’s head while his corpse slumped down into the trench he had dug himself. Then the warrior threw his blood-spraying skull away.
THE PLACE FOR THE HEADQUARTERS of the combined army camp was an area prepared by King Tancred’s Treverian pioneers and set up in the course of mere hours. Nonetheless, it showed a majesty worthy for the monarch’s arrival. Wooden steps were hewn into the hillside, leading up to the high seat. The paths led under archways of huge crossed mammoth tusks, like a misunderstood gesture to the Vacomani culture of Jarnsaxa’s warband. The high seat itself was not a tent in which the gathering should take place, but a longhouse accommodating a hall with a hearth at its end. It was obvious that Tancred tried hard to impress Jarnsaxa Ornsdottir, be it because of the unpleasant situation he had brought her into, or to ask for even more.
By the evening, the surrounding artillery pieces were in place and beginning to bombard the nearby city for the whole night. It would wear down the defenders for the imminent attack the next day. There was no such thing as strategic waiting for an improvement of conditions for a man like King Tancred. Since he was born, the gods had simply been on his side. Nothing else was needed.
But Dryston had a feeling that Tancred had somehow learned of Gabriel Werdum’s predictions, and that this was the real reason behind pressing for the fall of Jarl Godfrey. Before the end of the second day, Tancred’s army should be able to carve out the heart of the city, or the monarch would have to take other unforeseeable factors into account.
For Dryston himself, it was only fitting. The city gates were closed for any outsider by now, and the only way to get to Argis Cairn-Breaker and hopefully the antidote to the venom that was streaming through his veins would be through force. If the war host would lead him there within two days, fine. Either way, Dryston was a dead man walking. There was nothing left to lose for him and everything to gain.
The next effects of the intoxication had already began to show. Sickness, nausea, a feeling like a fire burning down the throat. The clerics guessed this was only the preliminary stage. They said the full impact would come into effect when a new component was added to the mix. This was anything that could be digested, food or other potions that would try to lift his body up. That meant because he couldn’t eat, he would grow weaker and the poison would have greater effect. He was damned if he did eat and damned if he didn’t. His body was in for a tough ride, and Dryston had the disturbing feeling he wasn’t even really aware of what was awaiting his immune system.
Dryston blamed himself a little for letting this happen to him, a dose of bad luck that would not have happened in a fair fight. But fights weren’t fair, nor should they be. Every weapon was allowed. A dead man’s venom was just another, which struck from beyond the grave.
He thought of Kyra for a moment and swore to himself. Stronger than ever before, he had the feeling that it was quite possible he would never see her again. The sorceress was moving in another direction, as far away from here as she possibly could, thinking that Dryston was doing the same. If he was going to die, he had always assumed it would be in a way to at least contribute to her safety. Now it was hardly believable she would receive word of how he died. And if she did, she would have guilty feelings that he had undertaken his last mission because of her. He didn’t want to pull any of his friends down. But he didn’t want to face this alone, not out of fear, but to give purpose to his actions. And that something of his legacy would be passed on. Truth was, this was a tremendous opportunity to go down firing the whole time. People were names and without names, they would soon be forgotten.
Dryston glanced over to Jade, who hovered over him like a thin shadow. Even though they both knew she was guilty of placing him in his awkward position, she was one of the few he had learned to consider a friend. Trusted, no, but she would stand with him during his final hours, and that was good enough for him to know.
They passed Cormack and the Valkyrie Skadi with the assembled barbarians on their way up to the high seat.
“What have we got here?” the brute asked and wrapped his fleshy arms around him.
Dryston drew his axe Cormack had noticed and held it up to him, hilt first in his open hand like a trinket on a plate. Its blade shone in Cormack’s face, a newly mastered piece of beauty and death.
“What are you two up to?” Cormack asked.
“Going to delete a name from Skadi’s list forever,” Dryston said. “And maybe some more, if they get in my way. Tell your brothers they can help me when it comes down to this if they are interested in fulfilling the oaths they swore.”
Skadi gave an appreciative nod. She had her hair oiled and bound back, and war paint smeared over her face like many other Vacomani.
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br /> One of them was coming late in joining their ranks, face still unpainted under a nasal helm with an iron scale collar. He began to draw a simple pattern under his eyes, just two vertical streaks. He then wiped his fingers in the rag he had used before to clean his machete.
“I haven’t seen this one before,” Skadi had to admit after noticing the newcomer.
The man in plate mail turned, so that Skadi could see the bear-claw pauldron on his other shoulder. There was the taxidermied skull of a mountain lion over his helmet, forming three branches in front of his face with the iron nose guard and two hand’s-width-long teeth. She earned a look from him from across the crowd, as if he had heard her. Ice climbers tortured the ground he was standing on, grinding.
“Judging by his apparel and reputation in the fighting pits, he has a history,” Kristen Rain said to her. “But we will never get to know his name, because he has none.”
“Why?” Skadi wondered. “And how will he be remembered?”
Kristen shrugged. “He doesn’t speak. Nor can he write. He is one of the berserkers. I guess he won’t be remembered.”
The Unnamed One smiled a warm smile, touched both of his eyes with two fingers and then pointed them in Skadi’s direction.
From across the clearing, Barknar watched the man with no name.
Joric was shifting uneasy beside him, as if shaken from an icy breeze.
“I have a problem I need you to take care of,” Joric said.
“Speak,” Barknar answered without averting his gaze from the nameless man.
“The members of my pack are sooner or later about to find out what happened during the night watch,” Joric moaned.
Barknar was listening intently, so Joric went on. “Then there is a cleric, Soma Ice-Veins. She recognized me. She might figure out that me bringing her the medicaments and the abandoned post when the first Kolanthel attack occurred correlate. I mean, she got the burning victims and then one of my group beaten to death.”
“Soma gets all casualties,” Barknar interrupted him. “A short while ago she got that poor wretch Lucky Kyr, no more than an errant boy. I agree that she knows too much, but a cleric is too valuable to remove.”
Joric turned away, worried, but Barknar held him back. “About your group, though,” he said, “the cartel can take care of that.”
ASUKARA URYAH had the note with the name and characteristics hidden in his hand. He was looking for a person in that gathering only with one eye. The other he had lost in pursuit of the Kolanthel the previous night. His scar was itching under the crude eye patch he’d been wearing since the clerics had treated him. He had hunted down the non-humans nonetheless, and he had been right about their numbers. He had slain orcs, elves, dwarves, and gnomes. Still, too many had gotten away for what they had done. Things had become personal with the non-humans since he had lost his eyesight in the woods.
Asukara was advancing into the monarch’s army territory. Equipment looked better maintained and more uniform under the Treverians than within his own warband. Mass manufacturing with no room for individual preferences, just the best principle for the common soldier and multiplied a hundredfold in the forges spread out across the realm. The same gear would be sported by the troops of Jarl Godfrey, he thought. It was the same kingdom, and they would fight the same countrymen. He had to keep that in mind when he was passing the soldiers preparing their armor and weapons. He studied the pattern of the chainmail and possible weak spots in the variant armor types from the common soldiers to the officers. The ubiquitous tower shields would make it hard to get through their guard. Asukara noted that the Treverian soldiers were considering him like he was some illiterate savage. Only the respect from his progressive Chu-Ko-Nu crossbow kept the insults at bay.
Asukara reached the faction quarter in which he presumed to meet Ysara Horne. Medium-built, cherry-wood colored hair coming down in curls to her shoulders, in tight leather trousers with a quilted leather jacket. The description quickly fitted one person. Asukara compared the features of the woman he saw and the interactions with her surroundings with those written on his note, then threw it into a firebowl when he was sure.
“Ysara Horne.” He approached her.
The woman turned and eyed him curiously.
“I’m Asukara Uryah,” he said. “I heard you are good at hunting non-humans.”
Ysara rolled her eyes. “Is this what people told you about me? I’m sure my non-human friends would throw up if that turned out to be true.”
She propped her hands against her hips and considered him.
Asukara noticed how two figures carrying crates stopped and turned when they heard Ysara’s remark. He recognized their faces and instantly went for his repeating crossbow. One was orc-kind, grayish-green-skinned with a broad jaw and a flat, boxer’s nose. His head was shaven, save for a thick mohawk haircut. The other was gaunt and shorter with a haggard face that could have been mistaken for a human on the first look. But the tone of his skin was bronze and looked like carved out of a piece of wood. The long pointy ears gave away his elvish origin. His beard was intricately trimmed.
“Are you looking for trouble?” the orc asked him.
“I’m sorry, I’ve not been living here that long,” Asukara said, confused.
“Not planning on living here long in future either, hm?” the elvish-kind said.
“It’s okay, boys,” Ysara Horne intervened. “He’s a foreigner and maybe not used to facing an orc and an elf outside the sights of his crossbow. Don’t worry, I was once just like you.”
She came down some steps to Asukara.
“What you mean, my trigger-happy friend, is Kolanthel,” she told him. “And you are right, I have some business with them. I guess, based on your new eye-patch, you have now, too.”
“CAN YOU TELL ME, what in the blue hell is going on here?” Asukara asked Ysara outside the embarkment point of their guild.
He tried to keep his voice low in front of the loading orc, Ravage, and his elvish companion, Coralaev.
Ysara Horne took a sip from her mead horn and leant back against the stacked crates, legs crossed.
“First of all, you have to understand that not every non-human belongs to the Kolanthel,” she explained. “A monster can be a monster, regardless of race. But within human society live a variety of beings different in size, looks, and features. It may be different where you come from, but here this is the rule. Some stay hidden and keep to themselves, while others show their origin more openly. A society can develop the fastest if it makes use of the best in their field, without other restrictions. That’s why guys like Coralaev and Ravage are enlisted with me. They know more about our enemy than anyone of us could ever find out.”
“I haven’t seen any blending in the warband I serve,” Asukara admitted. “Among the barbarians, even I am a rare breed, it seems.”
“Your warband was founded on other ideologies,” Ysara said. “On tribes, families, and blood. It doesn’t mesh well with non-humans, when it’s already a stretch to hire outsiders like you.”
“Could this be the reason why the Kolanthel keep raiding us?” Asukara asked.
“I don’t think this is the reason,” Ysara replied. “Know what the Kolanthel are, and understand their ultimate aim. They are a nationless army, wanting their own kingdom for non-humans only. This they will only achieve by bringing the human kingdoms, in our case Treveria, to downfall—through collapse of economy, by provoking wars of attrition. Understand the function of this instrument. They are rebels without a leader, yes, but this is what makes them impossible to root out. Everyone can call themself Kolanthel as long as their goals concur with the ultimate aim. So, the threat will live on as long as the idea is in someone’s mind who has the wealth and means to contribute.”
“How are they able to endure without a kingdom?” Asukara asked.
“Drug trade and weapons are lucrative sources of income,” Ysara Horne said. “They are very skilled in producing both, and you can g
uess who their best client is. I would even go so far as to say that there are mutual agreements between some Kolanthel and Vacomani to keep both parties in the loop for what each one is doing.”
“That’s contradictory, to say the least,” Asukara said.
“Yes, but as long as someone gets their bag filled on both sides, don’t count on earning any sympathy for your eye-patch from anyone around here.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KING’S ARMY CAMP
JARNSAXA ORNSDOTTIR got up from her high seat in the hall and paced over to the laid table in front of the hearth. For a barbarian warlord, she was in ceremonial dress even though the hall stood empty save for the guards. Her long skirt was a thin strip that reached down from her back between her legs, while a wolf pelt covered her shoulders. She soaked in the surroundings, too much sunken in thoughts to be aware of them before.
The hall gave a false warm atmosphere with the red carpet and tapestries and the crackle of the fire. She observed the neatly laid out cutlery and plates on a table loaded with fruits and meat to provide a meal for a whole company. Truth was, she never had felt this alone before, even though all her commanders stood behind her. Or maybe it was because so many stood behind her. She was alone between two fronts, and she had to decide. It was like being drawn into a meat-grinder between King Tancred and Jarl Godfrey while she was trying to follow her own quest.
She knew why she left the north. But right now it felt like a waste of time. This was not what had brought her here, from the horrors that lay in the coldness of her home, against which the events taking place here paled in comparison. There would not be much left to come home to if she failed to find their savior. Her people was one of the hardest of mankind, selected through the rite of passage and survival of the strongest, with pure bloodlines reaching back for centuries and the drive for heroic deeds of their ancestors. But you could oppose nature only so much. When there were ice-storms that froze you to death and landmasses of ice breaking underneath your feet so you would be swallowed into the sea… nature would kill everyone. When the tribes waged war against one another and the wyrms broke from the depths of the sea, salvation could only be brought by a king who united them and led them to take the green pastures from the weaker kingdoms.
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