Chronicles Of Aronshae (3 Book Omnibus)

by J. K. Barber

  Using the brief respite, Branden changed the grip on his hammer and screamed, “Duck!” to the King’s Guard beside him. The man next to Branden, a stout younger man named Geoffrey, dropped to a knee, trusting his fellow guard and drove a dagger into the creature’s leg just as the former smith from Snowhaven swung his massive maul over his head in a circular motion at the Shadow Walker’s skull. To the creature’s credit, it was able to bring its daggers up in time to make a vain attempt to block the blow, but the sheer power of the strike coupled with the weight of the hammer’s head was too much. The Shadow Walker’s head rocked back, sending its helmet flying across the room and the thing went flailing backwards, tripping over the body of one of the dead soldiers on the ground.

  Branden’s feeling of accomplishment was short lived though as his original opponent came at him again. The creature that attacked him had a smashed nose, which would have hampered its breathing if it still drew breath, but the creature was unimpeded by its injury. Something about the thing’s ruined face sparked a memory in the smith’s mind. He had seen this man’s face before, but the heat of battle coupled with the man’s now deformed features made identification impossible. Branden ducked as the dead man swung at his head, thrusting the head of his hammer into the creature’s stomach, again encountering the thick metal of a breastplate beneath the thing’s loose fitting clothing. Though the blow did not drive the wind out of the creature, as the abominations did not breathe, it did drive the Shadow Walker back. Branden thrust his hammer forward again, this time at the creature’s face. The Shadow Walker made to parry the thrust with its sword, but waved only an empty hand. Branden smashed the dead man’s face again, staggering the creature once more. Out of the corner of his eye, the smith saw where the sword, meant to cleave his head from his shoulders, had been driven into the center pole of the king’s tent so deep that the creature had not been able to pull it back out. Branden also had time to realize that the trapped sword was his own. Apparently, the Shadow Walker before him had pulled the blade out from where the smith had driven it into the creature’s chest and had been using the weapon to attack Branden.

  Now swordless, the Shadow Walker pulled an obsidian dagger from its belt, holding the weapon in his hand so that the grinning skull pommel faced Branden and the long blade pointed towards the floor. Seizing on his reach advantage, the smith struck out again with the top of the hammer’s head. Unfortunately, the Shadow Walker had learned from Branden’s previous strikes and dodged the out-thrust hammer with surprising speed. The smith had no time to marvel at his opponent’s dexterity though. Pain ripped up his arm, from the wrist to the shoulder. Screaming in pain, Branden pulled his arms back, adopting a defensive stance, turning his wounded right arm away from the Shadow Walker.

  Branden spared a glance to his right. The Shadow Walker he had knocked down had regained its feet and had capitalized on the opportunity presented by Branden over extending his thrust. Branden saw red blood, which he took to be his own, dripping from the tip of the other Shadow Walker’s blade. Sparing a quick glance for his fellow King’s Guard he saw that the man was still standing, but being worn down by his opponent’s untiring attacks. Blood dripped from a dozen cuts and wounds all over his body. If they did not end this fight soon, Branden knew that the Shadow Walkers’ unnatural endurance would win the day.

  Branden spoke words of encouragement to his fellow King’s Guard, using the younger man’s name in an attempt to lessen the man’s fatigue. “Stand your ground, Geoffrey!” Branden said, his voice portraying vigor he did not feel. “We are all that stands between His Majesty and these things!”

  “Not all,” came Talas’ voice from Branden’s left side.

  “Not in the least,” said Veldrun’s from behind.

  “Let them come!” bellowed King Morgan’s voice as the monarch stepped forward to stand at Geoffrey’s back. “The best of Illyander stand before you, things of darkness. It is not we who will fall this day.”

  Emboldened by their King’s words, the four men stepped forward, determined to end the cursed existence of these foul creatures. Using his shield to defend Branden’s left, Talas struck a well-aimed blow at one of the Shadow Walker’s knees as the creature side stepped a blow from the smith’s hammer. With a sickening crunching sound, the dead man’s leg buckled and Branden kicked the creature in the chest toppling the abomination to the floor. Talas drove his mace into the thing’s shoulder as it tried to raise the dagger in its right hand. Again, there was a revolting sound as the Shadow Walker’s shoulder was destroyed by the priest’s mace. Taking the opportunity, Branden raised his massive maul in both hands and brought the head crashing down into the creature’s already ruined face. A horrible sound, like a melon being crushed under a horse’s hoof came to Talas’ ears. Yet, to the priest’s amazement, the abomination still struggled to get to his feet.

  Branden reached down, grabbed the Shadow Walker’s shoulder and, with strength wrought from long hours of smithing, the King’s Guard heaved the creature onto its stomach. Planting the head of his hammer on the creature’s back, Branden leaned on the weapon in an attempt to hold the creature prostrate.

  “The back of the head!” he screamed. “Destroy the gem in the back of the head.”

  Releasing his grip on the his mace, so that the weapon dangled from the thong around his wrist, Talas drew back the hood of the Shadow Walker’s tattered black robe to reveal a tight fitting metal helm beneath. Grabbing the edge of the helmet, the priest ripped the protection away, exposing the sickly white skin of the creature’s shaven head. Pulsing purplish-black tattoos decorated the dead man’s head, all centered around a black gem that was embedded into the back of the creature’s skull. The gem seemed almost to throb with a life of its own while still managing to absorb all the light around it. There was no sparkle to this gem, only the darkness of the Void.

  “Hurry!” Branden cried, his desperate voice breaking Talas out of his reverie. He had been staring at the gem, fascinated, unaware of his surroundings.

  Shaking off the lure of the black crystal, Talas raised his mace, smashing it into the back of the Shadow Walker’s head, shattering the arcane gem that gave the dead man a sickening semblance of life. To Talas’ surprise, the dead man twitched for several long seconds after the crystal had been smashed before finally becoming still.

  King Morgan, Captain Veldrun and Geoffrey had similarly achieved victory over the Shadow Walker they had faced. Branden turned from Talas’ and his opponent to see the other creature literally pinned to the ground face down. Both Geoffrey and Veldrun had driven their swords completely through the Shadow Walker’s back and into the ground beneath. Still struggling, despite having been fixed to the ground by a pair of three foot lengths of steel, King Morgan had to straddle the creature’s back before he drove the pommel of his longsword into the exposed back of the Shadow Walker’s skull. A familiar shattering noise filled the tent followed by the thrashing death throes of the Ice Queen’s servant.

  Waiting several moments until he was satisfied that the Shadow Walker would not rise again, King Morgan got to his feet, using the creature’s cloak to wipe the black ichor off his blade.

  Branden used his foot to turn over the dead man he and Talas had dispatched and then ripped open the Shadow Walker’s shirt, revealing a metal breastplate beneath. Kneeling, the smith rapped the metal armor with his knuckle. “This is not orc-made,” he pronounced, a fuming anger suddenly evident in his voice.

  As the heat of battle faded, Branden noticed that the sounds of battle outside had lessened as well; though the camp was still loud with the voices of men, the roar of the dragons had disappeared.

  Talas stepped to the tent opening calling out to a passing solider that the King had been attacked and there were wounds to be tended inside. In the span of a dozen heartbeats, the tent began flooding with King’s Guards, soldiers and healers, carrying lanterns and other supplies. A young man, easily a decade or two short of Branden’s age grabbed the sm
ith’s arm to look at the bleeding gash. With more anger than he intended he yanked his wounded arm out of the man’s grasp, pointing at Geoffrey.

  “Idiot!” he yelled. “It’s just a scratch. That man needs your help more than I do.” Branden looked at his arm even as he spoke. There was a steady flow leaking from his limb, and the smith saw bone underneath the thick crimson.

  Talas stepped forward, gently ushering the young healer aside, whispering an apology in his ear, but still sending the man away. The priest grabbed Branden’s wrist firmly, holding the injured limb even as the much stronger smith tried to extricate his arm from Talas’ grasp.

  “That’s enough Branden,” Talas said, managing to sound both comforting and scolding at the same time. “The man was simply trying to help you. Now hold still while I tend to this…scratch.” Talas ripped Branden’s sleeve, completing the rent caused by the Shadow Walker’s blade until the smith’s entire arm was exposed.

  Branden turned a scathing glance at Talas, immediately regretting it. To his credit, the priest did not flinch, nor did he challenge the much bigger man. Although, the former sellsword did look questioningly at Branden before taking an offered bucket of water and a clean cloth from one of the soldiers and began washing the wound that marred the smith’s arm.

  Branden’s shoulders hunched slightly, embarrassed at his outburst, but the rage that bubbled beneath the surface was evident to anyone who took a moment to watch the man after his upbraiding of the young healer. There were several people watching the King’s Guard out of the corner of their eyes with mild astonishment.

  “This is the first I’ve ever heard of these… creatures,” Talas said the word with obvious disgust, “wearing armor at all.” The priest’s attempt to calm Branden down with conversation was obvious; however it only seemed to aggravate the smith further. Talas began to speak, intending to gently probe Branden further and ascertain the root of his anger, but the priest was cut off by the King.

  “Meaning what?” King Morgan asked, attempting to help Geoffrey to his feet. The wounded King’s Guard waved off his liege, preferring to sit. The concern on the monarch’s face was clear. King Morgan waved more healers forward, insisting that the injured man lie down fully. Geoffrey’s face was pale and his eyelids fluttered as he was lowered to the ground.

  “Meaning,” Branden growled, his mysterious fury rising again, as he addressed his liege with more venom than he intended. Branden paused, taking a deep breath and calming himself before he continued. “Meaning, the Ice Queen has commandeered the armor and weapons we left behind when we abandoned Snowhaven.”

  Talas now saw the source of the smith’s wrath. Branden couldn’t help but be enraged by the thought that the armor and blades he made were in the hands of the ice orcs and being used on Illyanders.

  “That’s to be expected,” Captain Veldrun said as he gently helped another healer pull General Frey’s still form from the table and laid him softly onto the rug-covered ground. A quick check to confirm that Cewin Frey was still breathing brought a look of relief to the Captain’s face. “Only a fool would not take advantage of a cache of superior arms.”

  “That’s not all,” Branden replied, as Talas eased the huge smith into an offered chair. The priest asked one of the multitude of healers in the crowded tent for a needle and thread.

  A sickening feeling gripped Branden’s stomach as he realized why the smashed face of the dead man seemed so familiar. “She’s using the bodies of the warriors and sorcerers that fell trying to defend Snowhaven.”

  King Morgan’s face was a mixture of shock, disgust and anger. “How do you know that, Branden?” the monarch asked.

  Branden pointed towards the dispatched Shadow Walkers at their feet. “This man’s name was Joseph and the other’s was Rolard.” Branden indicated the creature that King Morgan had dispatched. “They both went to school with my daughter, Sasha, though they graduated years before her.”

  “Though disheartening, I can’t imagine it’s entirely unexpected.” Captain Veldrun looked around the room, choosing his words carefully so as not to betray the secrets of the battle beneath Aeirsga. “Especially given earlier… events.”

  “I agree, Captain,” Branden replied, beneath his anger his voice held hints of disgust and fear. “However, I had hoped those we fought before were exceptions, rather than the rule.”

  “What do you mean,” the King asked, not seeing the connection.

  “Your Majesty,” Branden replied, his voice shaking. “It is very possible that the Empress has an entire army of these creatures that still remember their training; an entire army of undead warriors and sorcerers at the Empress’ command, still proficient in sword and spell, performing the Ice Queen’s bidding without hesitation.”

  King Morgan looked down at Geoffrey who lay unmoving on the ground, his blood staining the rug beneath him. One of the healers tending the fallen King’s Guard looked up at his liege and shook his head sadly.

  As the sounds of the commotion outside further died away a cold wind blew into the tent, sending a shudder down the spine of every living man inside.

  Chapter 10

  Sasha woke to pain. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. She took several shallow breaths, concentrating on getting the pain under control. As she did so her senses began to feed her information. There was a horrible smell in the air, like rotted meat and horse sweat. Her ears started to work next. She heard a metallic rattling and what sounded like an animal growling. Suddenly, the image of the soldier who had been mauled by a wild animal sprung to her mind and she opened her eyes. Light flooded in, not bright, but enough that she had to blink several times before she could see well enough to realize what was going on.

  She was lying on her side facing away from the sound of the growling, which had been joined by a deep guttural noise that eventually registered as laughter. It reminded Sasha of a noise she had once heard coming from a sick horse in Snowhaven. The poor animal had contracted a disease of the lungs and had to be put down. Both noises, the growling and the laughter, had come from behind her. Sasha slowly rolled over onto her back, almost calling out in pain as she did so and hearing a sickening grinding noise come from her left side. Closing her eyes against the agony, she again took several short breaths, using the techniques Mistress Mala had taught her to try to block out the pain.

  Sasha’s eyes shot open, despite her suffering. Mistress Mala changed, she thought to herself. She became…. But the younger swordswoman had no words for what she had seen.

  Before she could think more on the matter, the sounds around her changed, bringing her attention to the present. The growling was suddenly cut short by a dull thudding noise and a cry of pain, followed by more laughter. Sasha turned her head, afraid to roll any further, so that she could see the source of the noises.

  A huge blue-skinned brute, its face like a cross between an ape and a pig, stood over another kneeling figure. The growling resumed and this time Sasha could tell that the sound came from the smaller man as he spat blood into the mud at his feet and tried to rise again. Though his face was covered by his long filthy hair, matted with dirt and blood, Sasha recognized the man’s fur-lined coat and the silver disk that hung from his throat as Jared’s. The disk had fallen out from beneath his shirt as he rose and stood gleaming in the meager torch light.

  Sasha took quick stock of their surroundings. They were in a tent, made of animal skins from what she could tell, big enough to hold her, Jared and a dozen or so others. A rapid survey of the room told her that besides the two of them, Katya had survived as well, thank the Mother, though Sasha was concerned about the large amount of dried blood she saw covering her sister’s robes and matting her hair. A small group of soldiers had survived too, for which Sasha sent more gratitude to the Great Mother, all chained to the same post in the center of the enclosure. Additionally, in one of the darkened corners of the tent, Sasha could see Mala. The swordmistress was not chained to thick wooden posts driven into the muddy grou
nd beneath them like the others; Mala had been imprisoned in a small cage barely large enough to hold her. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, Sasha realized the older woman was looking at her. Like Jared, Mala’s hair was unbound and matted against her head with muck and mire. From behind the older woman’s soiled steel grey hair, Sasha saw ice blue eyes, staring at her with a bizarre mixture of resignation, hatred and fear. Sasha did not think the look was meant for her, but did not have time to ponder Mala’s gaze any more before her attention was again drawn to Jared and his tormentor.

  The hunter strained against the chains that led from his manacled wrists to the thick post jutting out of the ground. Jared threw his head back, shaking his hair out of his face revealing a man that Sasha barely recognized. The woodsman’s eyes were wild, full of rage and panic at the same time. His lips were pulled back from his bloody teeth in a rictus of ferocity and his jaw was clenched so tightly that his face had been transformed into a mask of wrath. Jared opened his mouth, but the noise that escaped his throat was more akin to a beast than that of the man she knew. Making a sound somewhere between the tortured scream of a human and the wild howl of a wolf, Jared actually tried to bite the gloating ice orc that stood before him.

  Laughing again, the blue-skinned brute delivered a savage kick to the hunter’s stomach, driving the toe of his iron shod leather boot into Jared’s midsection. Predictably, the woodsman fell to his knees once more, sending up a small spray of mud, melted snow and what Sasha was sure was Jared’s blood. Amazingly, the hunter started to rise again, albeit much more slowly, a deep rumbling growl again coming from his chest.