HE WHO FIGHTS

by Mike Morris

  "Don't you think you need to ask your pilgrims before you sign them up for something like that?" asked Myri.

  Fia glanced over her shoulder, saw Douglas returning with a woman — the boy's mother. Fia indicated that they continue the conversation elsewhere and started walking. "I will — but I have no doubt they’ll follow. It's Odason's will."

  Rane and Myri fell into step behind her. "It'll be hard to protect you all," he said once they had some privacy again. The boy's mother's cries filled the space they'd left behind.

  "What's in there?" asked Fia.

  "If we're lucky," replied Rane, "only ghosts. But the fact no one's made it out there alive that we know of suggests there are worst things lurking. Probably more Brackes, maybe Jotnars."

  "You shouldn't go with us," Myri said to Fia. "We're trained. We're experienced. We're..." she stopped herself from saying 'Legionnaires' in time. "…prepared for what we'll find. You're none of those things."

  "I'm not suggesting you don't lead us and do whatever needs to be done," replied Fia with a smile, as if really none of what she was about to say needed saying. "But we have weapons. Douglas and William are capable. We can help in whatever way we can and, at night, we can rotate the guards and give everyone a chance to rest. And we’ll be with you when you find Sarah."

  Rane went to speak but Fia held up her hand to silence him. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you that we will follow with or without your permission. This is Odason's will — bringing you to us in our hour of need, bringing us all to this spot, this crossroads. I’ll do as he commands us do."

  Rane could think of a thousand arguments why the pilgrims shouldn't follow them, but looking into her eyes, he could see none of them would change her mind. "Just make sure everyone knows what they are getting themselves into. And spread out whatever weapons you have — Odason isn't going to be able to help us in the Dead Lands."

  Fia bowed. "Thank you. Now I’ll go and help bury our dead. I'll speak with you again when we eat." She looked over at the mother crying over her dead son. "If any of us have an appetite for food after this."

  The priest wandered back to her people, leaving Myri and Rane alone once more.

  "I know we're not going to do it," said Myri, "but the sensible thing would be to leave all of them behind and take the Long Road and be on our way. The girl's more than likely dead. Marcus too."

  "We don't know that for sure," said Rane softly. "There's still a chance."

  "Maybe now. Maybe tomorrow. But it’s at least three days to cross that wasteland. They'll never reach the other side. Nor will we."

  "There's still a chance," repeated Rane.

  Myri shook her head in exasperation. "I'll remind you how fucking insane this is when we're dead. For the rest of eternity, I'll keep moaning on about it."

  Douglas and William dug a grave by the roadside. The chunk of their spades was a steady rhythm in the night. Someone else on the far side of the wagons had got a small fire going and there was a brief flash as more wood was added to it.

  "You asked me earlier why I left the Legion," said Rane eventually. "I only told you part of the reason." He gestured to the north with his chin. "This was the other part."

  "The Dead Lands?"

  "What we did here."

  "What we did? We won the war here," said Myri.

  "We committed genocide here. We used magic to commit mass murder here."

  "We won the war! How is that murder?" Myri rubbed her face, eyes full of disbelief. "We chased the Rastak Army here after years of defeat, years of them murdering everyone in their path. They formed up on the Plains, ready to make a stand, ready to fight once more. And gave us a chance to end it in one fell swoop. We took it. Be proud of what we did."

  "We became as bad as the Rastaks — as monstrous. There was no honour in what we did, just Babayon sending demon fire to do our work for us. I can still hear the screams, smell the roasted flesh. And everyone was so happy about it. Drinking beer and joking while the world burned."

  "Would you rather we’d all died?"

  "No... but none of the choices we made have worked out for the better have they? Our souls trapped in cursed swords while we slowly turn into demons ourselves, people starving, crops failing, towns dying. And the heart of our country looks like Heras' Kingdom more than anything the Rastaks tried to do." Rane sighed. "Yes, I wanted to win the war but not like that. That's why I left. I was ashamed of what we'd done, of what we'd become...of what I'd become. We shouldn't have done what we did."

  Myri scuffed her feet in the dirt as she thought about what to say. The pilgrims were singing by the grave as the boy's body was lowered into the ground, a haunting melody full of sorrow and pain. Finally Myri looked up. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow."

  19

  The pilgrims, nine adults in all, stood around Rane and Myri in a half circle, faces grim and pale but determined. Dark circles framed their eyes from lack of sleep. Douglas had passed weapons to them all earlier but, apart from the two guards, none looked comfortable holding them. The four surviving children huddled together in Fia's wagon, watching but not understanding what was about to happen. They'd moved all the food and most of the water there as well. The mobile temple was larger and sturdier than all the other wagons, and they'd had agreed it would be protected at all costs. The other wagons could be sacrificed if need be but survival meant keeping the temple moving, keeping the food and water safe.

  "The Crow's Road goes straight through the Dead Lands," said Rane. "We keep to it no matter what. If you see Marcus or Sarah, tell Myri or me. Don’t get drawn off the road. Don’t get off your wagons unless your life is in danger and there’s no other choice."

  He watched their faces, only too aware the pilgrims weren't soldiers. Fia’s husband was a Fascalian called Karn, and he looked tired enough that a hundred days' sleep wouldn't make a difference. He gripped an axe that had seen plenty of action in its life, judging by the nicks in the blade edge, though Karn's slight frame suggested it’d had a previous owner more suited to using it. The Hendersons, Olivik and Tanya, were the parents to two of the remaining children. As a carpenter, at least he had the build of someone used to manual labour with big shoulders and powerful arms. His wife had agreed to stay with the children, armed with a knife, to try and stop them seeing anything they shouldn't. Joassa Alrick would be with her too, which was only a good thing. Out of everyone there, she looked the most intimidating and ready to use the meat cleaver in her hand. Hazia stood next to her, eyes red from a night of crying. She had no weapon — the fight was gone from her. Her husband, Regas, wasn't much better, fingers constantly twitching in and out of the trigger of his crossbow. Chances were he'd shoot one of their own before they'd got too far. And Rane had thought the soldiers he'd commanded on the wall at Candra had been inexperienced. What he'd give to have a dozen with him now. What he'd give for everything to be different.

  "Has anyone got any questions?" he asked before his own thoughts got the better of him.

  The pilgrims shuffled their feet as they looked at each other, wondering if anyone was going to speak. Finally Karn found his voice. "What exactly are we going to see in there?"

  "No one really knows," said Myri. "That's the truth. Two years back, we pushed the Rastak army back here and they were using the plains to regroup. A mage set the ground on fire and killed them all. The land burned for over a year. As you'll see when we get to the borders, some of it’s still burning today. Rest is ash and bones."

  "Don't sound so bad," said Olivik, chewing his lip.

  "The reason we don't know what else is in there," continued Rane, "is because no one's made it out of Dead Lands alive ever since. People who entered the Crow's Road have never been seen since. Chances are there’s every type of demon in there left over from the war. Make no mistake — we'll be lucky if one of us makes it out alive. If you want to turn back, now's the chance."

  "Shit," said Regas, lifting his crossbow, and for a moment, Rane thought he was goin
g to pull the trigger. Rane stepped forward, and pushed the weapon back down to point at the ground.

  "Keep your finger away from the trigger until you want to use it," he told the man. "If you're scared, pass it to someone else. There's no shame in feeling that way."

  The pilgrims all looked at Fia, taking their lead off her. Good credit to the woman, she acknowledged it, taking her time to choose her words carefully. "You all know how I feel. Yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, we may all die, but death is the only certainty in life anyway. I believe this is Odason's will, His desire for us. We all embarked on this journey together to build a new home for Him after the Rastaks destroyed all of His temples. It is no coincidence that our path has taken us to this place, where His enemies paid for their crimes. This is a test of our faith in Him and one we will all pass. Because I know each and every one of you believe in Him. Believe me when I say Odason will look over us."

  "Odason will look over us," chorused the others.

  Fia turned to Rane. "We go."

  Rane had to admire them for their spirit, even if he doubted their sanity. "Okay. Myri and I will take the lead. Douglas and William the rear. Fia's wagon goes in the middle. Let's go."

  "Nathaniel, before we go, may I have a word?" asked Fia, holding up a hand.

  "Certainly," he replied.

  Fia waited for Myri to reach her horse and mount up before speaking. "Your burns are looking much better this morning. A night's rest seems to have done wonders for you."

  "With everything going on, I hadn't noticed," replied Rane. His skin was better, a bright pink as opposed to the violent red it had been. He rolled his shoulders and was happy to feel the tightness gone from the movement.

  "I have to admit," said Fia, "when I saw your injuries yesterday I was amazed you were alive, let alone on your feet. I don't think most normal men would be."

  "I didn't think I was that bad," laughed Rane, knowing it was probably worse.

  "Magic is a false gift." Fia's voice as soft as a mother's to her child. “It always bears a terrible price.”

  "I'm aware of that," replied Rane, with a tightness to his jaw. Kibon stirred, alert.

  "Odason's path for us is never easy. It tests us at every turn, searching to see if our faith in him is real. He offers no shortcuts nor should we look for them." Fia looked him in the eye with an intensity that showed the determination in the woman. "Pain is what makes us who we are. That’s why I'm not afraid, either for myself or for my flock, of what we may face in the Dead Lands. We’ll discover much about ourselves by the time we reach the other side. As Odason intends."

  "Let's hope we're both around to find out what that is."

  Fia nodded, went to say something else but stopped herself. She gave a curious half-smile full of sadness, squeezed Rane's arm and wandered back to her wagon, touching the heads of her companions as she passed them. Rane watched her, aware of how much he liked the woman. He only hoped she’d keep her purity of spirit with what was to come.

  "We're wasting time," called out Myri from the back of her horse.

  "I'm coming," replied Rane. Fia clambered into her wagon and took the driver's seat. She caught Rane's eye again and nodded. Time to go. He checked his saddle and kit, making sure everything was secure. A yew long bow hung on one side with a quiver of arrows, a gift from Fia. None of the pilgrims had the strength to use it, but Rane didn't have that problem. The arrows were beautifully weighted, with steel heads more than capable of punching through plate and shield.

  The convoy rumbled on its way with Rane and Myri in the lead. No one was talking. All too nervous, too scared. Easy to believe in Odason watched over you, another to test that faith like they were all about to do. Rane shifted in his saddle. He'd stopped believing long ago, back in the war. After what he’d seen — what he’d experienced — it was hard to believe in a higher power looking after his welfare. He had Kibon and, cursed or not, it would keep him alive. The voice in his head assured him of that. He could feel it’s eagerness, it’s hunger for what they were about to do. It knew blood would be spilled in that cursed place.

  The Dead Lands were even more shocking in the daylight. They came over the peak of the hill where Rane had stopped the night before, already coughing on smoke-stained air. When they saw what waited for them, gasps and cries broke out among the convoy. The black grass spread as far as the eye could see to the west, north and east, the horizon interrupted only by orange pockets of fire spewing black clouds into the sky. It was as if part of Heras' kingdom had been recreated in the world above. At least the road they followed was still clear to see — a straight gash through the ebony fields.

  Joassa whispered words of comfort to the children, but they could do nothing to lessen the horrors in front of them all. Rane looked back to find, to all their credit, the wagons were still following.

  "Do you want to give them one last chance to take the Long Road?" asked Myri.

  Rane shook his head. Fia wasn't going to be one for turning back from their course. "Let's get it over with."

  They crossed the Long Road five minutes later, leaving life behind them, and took their first steps on the Crow's Road. One of the black birds, one eye missing, stood sentry on a branch of a burnt out tree and squawked as they passed, an ill omen for the journey ahead. The ground crunched beneath the horses' hooves as they forced their mounts on. The animals protested, fighting their riders, only too aware of the dangers of where they were being asked to go, but eventually all moved on.

  The sun disappeared behind clouds as soot swirled around them. Rane gazed down the empty road. "Marcus has a good head start on us."

  Myri wrinkled her nose. "Bastard's on foot though, dragging a kid along with him. We should reel him in easily enough."

  "As long as nothing else stands in our way." Rane shifted in his saddle, Kibon a gnawing pain in the back of his neck. The weapon's urgings were getting worse. It was if it could sense the danger around them and wanted to be free. Wanted to be blooded. Wanted to be strong. Or was it Rane's own fears making him think that? He doubted every thought, every feeling. What was him and what was the sword? Was there a difference anymore?

  His hands shook as he gripped his reins ever tighter. He wasn't going to give in. Somewhere out there, a child needed him. He was doing good again. Being a true Legionnaire. He wasn't a mindless killer like Marcus. Not a blood-crazed demon. Not yet.

  Myri rode next to him, taut as a bowstring. Only the Gods knew what she was feeling but Rane could imagine well enough. If he was suffering, the pressure on her had to be immense. They'd not talked about her sword since leaving Rooktown, but Rane hadn't forgotten how black the blade was. Not ebony like Marcus's, but close. They needed to get to Orska as quick as they could, otherwise Myri would be lost as well. And Rane with her.

  Time became difficult to track as they trundled along, the horizon never changing in a sea of burnt grass. Even the sun abandoned them, leaving the sky grey and grim behind clouds of smoke. Shards of black tree trunks jutted out of the ground here and there, and always the fires burned — even though there seemed nothing left to fuel them. The pilgrims muttered amongst themselves, repeating prayers over and over again, their words faster and faster, as if there was a certain quantity of faithfulness needed to bring Odason's protection over them all.

  But if there was ever a place where Odason had given up on the world, they'd found it. No amount of prayers was going to make a difference in the Dead Lands.

  It was a couple of hours or so before they saw their first skeletons. They were easy enough to spot — white bones sticking up out of the black earth. Babayon's magic had stripped the flesh from the Rastak army but left their bones unmarked as eternal markers to what had been done.

  There were individual skeletons at first, then small clusters of two or three bodies, but with each step, each roll of the wheel, brought more and more of the dead into sight until they filled the endless horizon like a field of white flowers.

  Humans lay mixed up
with Jotnar, Bracke, Grenduns and Valkryn. Fingers and claws, teeth and fangs, giants and dogs, man and beast, nothing but bone now beneath their feet. The dead lay together, intertwined with no clear sign of where one body ended and another began, all twisted, all tortured. Theirs had not been an easy death.

  "How many died here, do you think?" asked Myri.

  Rane glanced up, furrowing his brow as he tried to answer. Kibon filled his thoughts, a pounding inside his brain that made thinking difficult. It was angry at being ignored, demanding to be unleashed. "All of them," he replied eventually.

  "At least we've nothing to fear here. Ghosts aren't going to kill us."

  "There's still Marcus to worry about."

  "Aye," replied Myri, and Rane couldn't help but notice her hand was on the hilt of her sword. A sliver of black steel showed. She clicked her heels and moved her horse ahead of him, finishing the conversation.

  Despite the lack of sun, the temperature rose steadily as they made their way down the road from the thousands of fires that burned. The ash got everywhere, stinging Rane's eyes, choking the back of his throat. Sweat added to his discomfort, running down his neck and back, soaking his clothes so they rubbed his burnt skin raw with even the slightest motion. He took a slug of water, but it brought little relief.

  Surrounded by the dead, he wondered just what he was doing. He wanted to scream at Fia's people to shut their mouths, stop their blathering prayers, and leave them behind to look after themselves. Marcus was gone. The child was dead. They were wasting time with these fools. Orska was all that mattered. Everything else was a waste of time. It was as if a hand held his heart and was trying to drag him north. He tried to shake the thoughts away but the pounding in his head refused to allow it. Kibon refused to allow it. This quest wasn't what the blade wanted. It wanted to kill things. Anything.

  He muttered his Legionnaire's oath under his breath to help him focus. He was doing the right thing. He had to do the right thing. He was in control, not Kibon.