River of Spears (Kingdom's Forge Book 0)

by Kade Derricks

  Whenever armies met, there were always men who, overcome by fear, broke and fled, but Dain suspected that wouldn’t prove the case today. The Tyberons didn’t look afraid, any of them. For their homes and families, they would fight to the last man. And as for the invading mercs, where would they run to? Facing the grassland alone meant a sure death. They too would all go down fighting.

  This is going to be a bloody one.

  The army marched on, neither fast nor slow, while he and the cavalry waited. The robed Tyberons started hurling spells at the footmen. Glowing spheres of purple, red, and blue flew from their hands and exploded among the mercenary force. Men and armor and black earth flew outward where they struck.

  Cheers erupted from the city—the women and children expressing their approval.

  The horn blew again, and Dain knew it was their turn. He patted the roan’s neck, hoping to calm him. A black flag waved, followed by two blues.

  He had guessed right. The cavalry would hit the enemy casters.

  The men at the head of each column spurred their horses and their excited mounts thundered into action. Four rows deep, Dain had to wait for his turn. When it came, the gray horse sprang forward.

  The spells turned. Sizzling bolts of blue and red flew past and he heard men and horses screaming behind him. Dain ducked down low over the roan’s neck; he drew deeper from the Light, felt its molten power flow through him. Though it couldn’t be seen, in his mind he pictured the Light as the warm yellow-orange glow of a sunrise, or when he drew deeper, as a blazing sun. His senses felt sharper, more alive. He sharpened his focus and willed the Light into his unseen spellshield. He felt it strengthen.

  His heart hammered in his chest, his breathing quickened, and he held his bare sword flat against the roan’s side. He gripped the weapon tight. The solid feel of its hilt offered a manner of comfort.

  Hooves, his own horse’s and others, thundered all around. At every step puffs of black ash rose into tiny clouds. Riders and mounts alike fell all around him. A boiling red sphere struck just a foot from his forehead, splashing over his spellshield and weakening it but not breaking through.

  He spurred the horse again, urging it faster. If he could crash into the casters they wouldn’t be able to use their spells without fear of hitting their own.

  A second sphere, purple this time, glanced off Dain’s shield to the left. A man behind him shrieked.

  He was in the lead now, the tip of a great wedge of man and iron and horse. Less than a hundred yards remained between himself and the casters. The charge became a contest of wills.

  More spells flew by. Hissing and spitting, a pair slammed into his shield, jarring his bones. He forced the Light stronger.

  Twenty yards to impact.

  One of the spellcasters, a woman in the front, turned and glanced at the village behind her ever so slightly. Dain nudged the roan directly at her.

  We’ll see how committed she is.

  He felt another spell hit his shield, but the casters were worried now. More turned their gazes toward shelter. They were distracted, scared, not able to put as much power into their spells, and their aim was suffering. Unlike the spearmen, most were not young. Today there would be no mercy for the old. Death wouldn’t discriminate—it came for all equally, and they had been casting for some time now and had to be tired.

  Five yards to impact. Dain strained to pull more Light into his shield as a dozen spells slammed into it.

  The spellcaster he was aiming for broke and ran. She took three steps then stumbled into the man standing behind her, tripped, and took them both down.

  Dain felt no remorse when the roan stepped on the pair and then slammed into a third caster behind them. These men and women had tried to kill him. Given a chance, would kill him still. His sword swept down, severing a man’s arm at the shoulder.

  He booted the roan in the ribs. It bounded forward and he chopped to the left, cutting through a woman’s neck. Blood, warm and thick, sprayed over him. Most of the Tyberons didn’t even attempt to pull him from the saddle; instead they kept trying to cast, but their spells either failed on his shield or flew wide, often hitting one of their own.

  Dain fought on. Some part of him knew that the battle must be raging all around him, but everything had fallen away the moment he’d crashed into the casters. His sword spun, swung, and slashed, killing or maiming with every turn. He’d cleared a small area of Tyberons when his horse collapsed underneath him. He rolled free and stood as a single caster approached him. Fire lanced out of the man’s hands, splashing over his spellshield. Dain felt a fraction of its heat wash over him. Like the Tyberons, he too was tired.

  When his strength reached its limit, the caster dropped his hands. He slumped down to his knees. Dain seized the opportunity and stabbed forward at the man’s neck.

  A metallic sound rang out—his swordtip hit something solid and glanced off. A second caster stood between him and the collapsed man. She held a long dagger in one hand, and her skin shimmered as if made of bronze.

  An ironskin spell.

  Dain had fought mages before, and several had used this same spell, or a form of it. The skin would be tough, but if he could get through the outer layer there was still soft muscle and flesh underneath. He roared and swung a vicious overhand blow.

  His sword met her raised forearm. Sparks flew. He slashed a second time and the blade glanced off her shoulder harmlessly. She struck back with her dagger, cutting his sword arm above the wrist and grinning as he retreated back.

  “Chokal,” she hissed at him in her native tongue. Dain didn’t have to speak the language to understand that it was a curse.

  With a yell, she charged. The dagger flashed in her fist.

  Dain’s blade met hers and he threw her back, using his greater mass to his advantage.

  He tried to hold her at bay with the longer sword, but with her free hand she grabbed his weapon and then pinned it to her side. He seized her dagger hand. She smiled and leaned in closer.

  Dain felt a moment of panic. She’ll carve me to pieces if I don’t get some breathing room.

  He brought his boot up and slammed it into her waist, shoving her away again and wrenching his blade free.

  She fell back, but the grin remained. She climbed to her feet slowly but deliberately.

  Dain used the time well. The sword’s blade began to glow a pale yellow as he charged it with the Light.

  Let’s see if this cuts her. He held the sword to the side and left his chest exposed, daring her to come closer.

  The woman stepped forward and lashed out with the dagger. Dain pivoted to the side; he slammed the charged blade into her outstretched arm, just above the elbow.

  Light flashed. The blade didn’t slow as it parted metal and tender flesh beneath. The spellcaster stared at her twitching arm in disbelief, the dagger still held in its fist. She screamed, and he could see her skin-changing spell shimmer, flicker, and then fall away.

  Without its protection, Dain’s sword slid easily between her ribs.

  Dain took a breath and looked around.

  There were no living enemies nearby; the man who had cast fire at him was gone or dead. The rest of the charging force had followed him in and collided with the casters. Several mercenaries lay dead but, without distance to protect them, the casters had been killed far faster. Here or there a caster still struggled with groups of mercs. Several were using ironskin spells, but against four or five men they were almost useless. Working as a group, the mercenaries either hacked through the skin—even iron wouldn’t hold up after a dozen hits—or pinned them down and choked the air from their lungs.

  A few dozen surviving casters were fleeing toward the city. Dain looked for the roan, and then remembered that the animal had fallen.

  No other horses were nearb
y, but in a moment it didn’t matter. When the casters reached the edge of the fields, a fleeting shadow swept over them and a Pyre Rider arced down from above. Dain recognized Nico by his single shining band. From the monstrous bat’s back, he leaned over and threw a wave of fire down at the Tyberons. The running casters faded into flame. Their mouths opened to scream, but the sound was swallowed in the inferno, and after the smoke and fires cleared, only dusty pillars of ash remained.

  Dain was glad the Riders were on their side. He would hate to test himself against one. He looked again at one of the smoldering piles of ash—one that had been a frightened woman mere moments before. Extermination, he thought again.

  His eyes followed the sweeping rider overhead. How long would his spellshield have held out against the flames?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The village refused to burn.

  Despite the bands of wandering foot soldiers’ best efforts, the stubborn adobe resisted. It would blacken and smoke, but refused to catch flame.

  The battle had ended hours ago, and with it all sense of order among mercenaries and Esterians alike. Men went rabid. They prowled the city like jackals, howling and looting and destroying.

  Dain was numb to it all.

  He sat alone on a low stone fence near a canal at the city’s outer edge. He felt the roughness of the stone under his palms. Evening approached. Stars shone in the purple-black eastern sky. A bank of thick clouds rose and towered in the west.

  Rain before midnight, he estimated.

  Water gurgled, undisturbed in the canal below. Earlier, in the dying sunset, he’d seen it tinted with Tyberon blood.

  No, not all Tyberon. Plenty of mercs and Esterians had died here. Their blood too mingled in the canal.

  Perhaps the rain will cleanse it.

  Dain had captured villages before, but never as a mercenary. The cruelty of the men shocked him. How could men do such things to one another? Were they under the influence of some twisted inner demon or was it just their own natures? The thought of plunder now turned his stomach.

  The Light’s scriptures—those he’d memorized as a child—said demons mostly lived in men’s spirits. They spoke evil into their thoughts and nightmares and bade men to act on it. Dain wasn’t so sure.

  In his travels before coming here he’d fought a few demons—physical beings, not the shadowed whisperers that polluted men’s minds. Some had been intelligent. Most had been mindless. All had been deadly strong, and ending them hadn’t been easy.

  He wondered what his teachers would have thought of them. What would they have thought of this?

  A rustling in the field to his left drew his attention. Four Tyberon children, all girls, emerged from the leafy cornstalks. They stared past him, studying the village, all of their concentration focused there. The foremost grasped the hand of the girl behind her, slowly stood, and then pulled her charges across the open road between Dain and the village.

  At the midway point the smallest turned her head and met his gaze. She stopped, tugging the hand of the girl ahead and the following girl stumbled into them both. All four then turned and spotted him. They froze, faces full of fear.

  The men in town, his comrades, would have taken them. Taken them and worse, he knew. Were they men still, his comrades?

  Dain raised a hand and gestured at the field to his right, their destination. He nodded toward it.

  They understood his message and, though they may not have trusted it or him, took their only chance. They plunged ahead into the next field, the last of them vanishing into the night without a backwards glance.

  Letting four go won’t save your soul, he told himself. He knew that from the scriptures. Only by the Creator’s grace could one’s soul be saved.

  After today there’s no saving any of us. There will never be enough grace to cover this.

  He hoped the act—a single gift of mercy—would quiet his dreams, if only for a night. The nightmares weren’t new; he’d been having them for months now. Dreams of a burning city and a rampaging madman. He could barely remember a time before the nightmares; they seemed to be a part of him now, but he could name the day they started. The day he’d been cast out.

  Bix had known of a potion—some foul brew that nevertheless kept them from him. He wished for one of her concoctions tonight.

  A woman’s scream in the distance jarred him from his thoughts, putting the lie to his hopes. Her voice was ragged, raw. This hadn’t been the first of her screams.

  Major Tindall and Hallock approached. The Esterian clearly found the easy-going mercenary’s company more to his liking.

  Each leaned against the other for support, weaving down the road and singing loudly. A song about women and dancing with death. Tindall carried a fat, earthen jug on his hip.

  The Light’s tenets forbade alcohol. An old rule, one paladins often broke or ignored completely, but one Dain himself had adhered to. Even after his removal he’d kept to that one. Out of all the tenets he’d broken, that one held firm.

  Old habits, they do die hard.

  “We’ve come to see if you wanna drink,” Tindall bellowed.

  “Yesss, we’ve come to see a real live hero. To sh—see if he wants a drink,” Hallock added, nodding sluggishly.

  “I’m no hero,” Dain said.

  “Shure ya are. Led the charge right down those savages’ guts. Ya skewered ‘em. Balerion hisself said you was a hero,” Tindall said.

  Savages? Dain looked at the bands of mercs dancing and screaming in the flickering firelight. He thought about the woman’s ragged screams. Who had proven more savage in the end?

  “Never seen nothing like it. All tha spells an’ fire flashing ‘round you,” Hallock added.

  “Most spellcasters have a spellshield of some kind,” Dain replied, not seeing any point in denying what they’d seen.

  “Yer not a spellcaster, though. An’ I seen a spellshield used once, ‘tween two mages fightin’, but it never held strong like yours. Three shots an’ it was gone an’ the mage was cooked! So here, have a drink on us.” Tindall chuckled. “Have a drink on our hosts. Good rum here.” He held the jug forward with both hands.

  Dain wanted a drink after all, he decided—anything to numb the guilt and quiet the demons’ whispers. He wasn’t a paladin anymore. The Light’s tenets had no hold on him. He took Tindall’s jug, unstoppered it, and tasted liquid fire.

  Dain was sleeping when the door burst inward. The rum hadn’t done its work—although he’d managed a full night’s sleep, there had been nightmares full of accusing faces and shredded screams. If anything they’d been worse this time, more vivid than usual. Alcohol, it appeared, offered nothing but a hangover.

  An armored soldier stood in the doorway. The white morning sun poured in around him, obscuring his face. His breath came in heaving gasps. He had been running.

  “Dain,” he panted, “you and your major are to report to Balerion at once. He’s in the adobe near the—”

  “I know where he is,” Dain said, cutting him off. His head hurt. The bright sun and noise made it worse. Perhaps another drink would help. He glanced around for the jug and hoisted it. Empty. He let it slip from his fingers and crash to the floor, not breaking but losing a chip from its handle.

  He smiled.

  Empty, chipped, and tossed aside. Just like me.

  Rousing himself, he found Tindall propped up in the corner, snoring. Another empty jug sat in his lap; his hands were wrapped around it as if it were a golden treasure.

  “Time to go. Balerion’s looking for us.” Without mercy, Dain jerked Tindall out of position, and the major crashed to the floor. His face jarred against the pommel of his sword, but he refused to wake. Dain kicked at his boots. Tindall didn’t stir. Finally, he hoisted the little Esterian over his shoulder and carried him l
ike a sack of flour.

  Dain thought about how much his head hurt and how far it was to the adobe where Balerion would be waiting. Too far to carry Tindall. At the doorway he spun and whipped the major’s head into the frame.

  “What the h—oh, urgh, my head. Let me down,” Tindall cried feebly.

  “Good, you’re awake. You can carry yourself to the meeting.”

  Dain dropped the Esterian onto the muddy street. He landed with a plop.

  Though Tindall was a better—far better—soldier than most Esterians, especially their proud commanders, he seemed to possess little self-control or discipline. Despite his stated intentions back at Post Eight of learning how to fight and how to lead his men, the major simply didn’t have the patience for it. On the way here Dain had offered lessons, but every time they made a bit of progress Tindall would go meet with his fellow Esterians and fall back into their ignorant ways. And now, head pounding, Dain’s patience had worn thinner than a thread.

  Balerion’s adobe, the one he’d commandeered for himself, was the largest in town. It sat opposite a hand-dug well in the village center.

  Must have been their lord’s home, Dain thought, or whatever they call their chieftains.

  The door was open and unguarded, and he walked into a greatroom. Soldiers—mostly mercs with a sprinkling of Esterians—crowded around Balerion as the general spoke.

  “Make no mistake, our situation is dire. Take control of your men. They’ve had their fun, and it ends now. Gather up the surviving Tyberons and bring them to the center of town. We’ll divide them up and put a few in each building, along with our own men, as hostages. If you follow my orders we still have a chance at getting out of this alive.”