The Remnant

by Charlie Fletcher

  Vargus kicked Lin out of the way, switched to a two-handed grip and stabbed the first man on the ground through the back of the neck. He didn’t have time to scream. The archer was trying to draw his short sword, but couldn’t manage it. He looked up as Vargus approached and a dark patch spread across the front of his breeches. The edge of Vargus’s sword opened the archer’s throat and a quick stab put two feet of steel into Lin’s gut. He fell back, squealing like a pig being slaughtered. Vargus knew his cries would bring the others.

  The second cook was on his feet, but Vargus sliced off the man’s right arm before he could throw his axe. Warm arterial blood jetted across Vargus’s face. He grinned and wiped it away as the man fell back, howling in agony. Vargus let him thrash about for a while before putting his sword through the man’s face, pinning his head to the ground. The snow around the corpse turned red, then it began to steam and melt.

  The greasy-haired sentry stumbled into camp with a dagger held low. He swayed a few steps one way and then the other; the tamweed Vargus had added to the wine was taking effect. Bypassing Vargus he tripped over his own feet and landed face first on the fire. The sentry was screaming and the muscles in his arms and legs lacked the strength to lift him up. His cries turned into a gurgle and then trailed off as the smoke turned greasy and black. Vargus heard fat bubbling in the blaze and the smell reminded him of roast pork.

  As he anticipated, Rak wasn’t as badly affected as the others. His bulk didn’t make him immune to the tamweed in the wine, but the side effects would take longer to show. Vargus was just glad that Rak had drunk quite a lot before going on duty. The giant managed to walk into camp in a straight line, but his eyes were slightly unfocused. Down at one side he carried a six-foot pitted blade.

  Instead of waiting for the big man to go on the offensive, Vargus charged. Raising his sword above his head he screamed a challenge, but dropped to his knees at the last second and swept it in a downward arc. The Seveldrom steel cut through the flesh of Rak’s left thigh, but the big man stumbled back before Vargus could follow up. With a bellow of rage Rak lashed out, his massive boot catching Vargus on the hip. It spun him around, his sword went flying and he landed on hands and knees in the snow.

  Vargus scrambled around on all fours until his fingers found the hilt of his sword. He could hear Rak’s blade whistling through the air towards him and barely managed to roll away before it came down where his head had been. Back on his feet he needed both hands to deflect a lethal cut which jarred his arms. Before he could riposte something crunched into his face. Vargus stumbled back, spitting blood and swinging his sword wildly to keep Rak at bay.

  The big man came on. With the others already dead and his senses impaired, part of him must have known he was on borrowed time. Vargus ducked and dodged, turned the long blade aside and made use of the space around him. When Rak overreached he lashed out quickly, scoring a deep gash along the giant’s ribs, but it didn’t slow him down. Vargus inflicted a dozen wounds before Rak finally noticed that the red stuff splashed on the snow belonged to him.

  With a grunt of pain he fell back and stumbled to one knee. His laboured breathing was very loud in the still air. It seemed to be the only sound for miles in every direction.

  “Korr was right,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly soft. “He said you’d come for us.”

  Vargus nodded. Taking no chances he rushed forward. Rak tried to raise his sword but even his prodigious strength was finally at an end. His arm twitched and that was all. No mercy was asked for and none was given. Using both hands Vargus thrust the point of his sword deep into Rak’s throat. He pulled it clear and stepped back as blood spurted from the gaping wound. The giant fell onto his face and was dead.

  By the fire Lin was still alive, gasping and coughing up blood. The wound in his stomach was bad and likely to make him suffer for days before it eventually killed him. Just as Vargus intended.

  He ignored Lin’s pleas as he retrieved the gold and stolen goods from the cave. Hardly a fortune, but it was a lot of money to the villagers.

  He tied the horses’ reins together and even collected up all the weapons, bundling them together in an old blanket. The bodies he left to the scavengers.

  It seemed a shame to waste the stew. Nevertheless Vargus stuck two fingers down his throat and vomited into the snow until his stomach was empty. Using fresh snow he cleaned off the bezoar and stored it in his saddlebags. It had turned slightly brown from absorbing the poison in the wine Vargus had drunk, but he didn’t want to take any chances so made himself sick again. He filled his waterskin with melting snow and sipped it to ease his raw throat.

  Vargus’s bottom lip had finally stopped bleeding, but when he spat a lump of tooth landed on the snow in a clot of blood. He took a moment to check his teeth and found one of his upper canines was broken in half.

  “Shit.”

  With both hands he scooped more snow onto the fire until it was extinguished. He left the blackened corpse of the man where it had fallen amid wet logs and soggy ash. A partly cooked meal for the carrion eaters.

  “Kill me. Just kill me!” screamed Lin. “Why am I still alive?” He gasped and coughed up a wadge of blood onto the snow.

  With nothing left to do in camp Vargus finally addressed him. “Because you’re not just a killer, Torlin Ke Tarro. You were a King’s man. You came home because you were sick of war. Nothing wrong with that, plenty of men turn a corner and go on in a different way. But you became what you used to hunt.”

  Vargus squatted down beside the dying man, holding him in place with his stare.

  Lin’s pain was momentarily forgotten. “How do you know me? Not even Korr knew my name is Tarro.”

  Vargus ignored the question. “You know the land around here, the villages and towns, and you know the law. You knew how to cause just enough trouble without it bringing the King’s men. You killed and stole from your own people.”

  “They ain’t my people.”

  Vargus smacked his hands together and stood. “Time for arguing is over, boy. Beg your ancestors for kindness on the Long Road to Nor.”

  “My ancestors? What road?”

  Vargus spat into the snow with contempt. “Pray to your Lantern God and his fucking whore then, or whatever you say these days. The next person you speak to won’t be on this side of the Veil.”

  Ignoring Lin’s pleas he led the horses away from camp and didn’t look back. Soon afterwards the chill crept back in his fingers but he wasn’t too worried. The aches and pains from sleeping outdoors were already starting to recede. The fight had given him a small boost, although it wouldn’t sustain him for very long. The legend of the Gath was dead, which meant time for a change. He’d been delaying the inevitable for too long.

  Carla, the village Elder, was standing behind the bar when Vargus entered the Duck and Crown. She was a solid woman who’d seen at least fifty summers and took no nonsense from anyone, be they King or goat herder. With a face only her mother could love it was amazing she’d given birth to four healthy children who now had children of their own. Beyond raising a healthy family the village had prospered these last twenty years under her guidance.

  Without being asked she set a mug of ale on the bar as he sat down. The tavern was deserted, which wasn’t surprising with everything that had happened. On days like this people tended to spend more time with their loved ones.

  “Done?”

  Vargus drained the mug in several long gulps and then nodded. He set the bag of gold on the bar and watched as Carla counted it, but didn’t take offence. The bandits could have spent some of it and he didn’t know how much had been stolen. When she was finished Carla tucked it away and poured him another drink. After a moment’s pause she tapped herself a mug. They drank in comfortable silence until both mugs were dry.

  “How is everyone?” asked Vargus.

  “Shook up. Murder’s one thing we’ve seen before, in anger or out of greed, but this was something else. The boy might g
et over it, being so young, but not the girl. That one will be marked for life.”

  “And their mother?”

  Carla grunted. “Alive. Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. When she’s back on her feet she’ll run this place with her brother. She’ll do all right.”

  “I brought in a stash of weapons and their horses too. You’ll see she gets money for it?”

  “I will. And I’ll make sure Tibs gives her a fair price for the animals.”

  The silence in the room took on a peculiar edge, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  “You hear the news coming in?” asked Carla. There was an unusual tone to her voice, but Vargus couldn’t place it. All he knew was it made him nervous.

  “Some,” he said, treading carefully and looking for the trap door. He knew it was there, somewhere in the dark, and he was probably walking straight towards it.

  “Like what?” asked Carla.

  “A farmer on the road in told me the King’s called on everyone that can fight. Said that war was coming here to Seveldrom, but he didn’t know why.”

  “The west has been sewn together by King Raeza’s son, Taikon.”

  Vargus raised an eyebrow. “How’d he manage that?”

  “Religion, mostly. You know what it’s like in Zecorria and Morrinow, people praying all the time. One story has our King pissing on an idol of the Lord of Light and wiping his arse with a painting of the Blessed Mother.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  Carla grunted. “So are all the other stories about him killing priests and burning down temples. Sounds to me like someone was just itching for a war. A chance to get rid of all us heathens,” she said, gesturing at the idol of the Maker on a shelf behind her. Most in Seveldrom prayed to the Maker, but those that didn’t were left alone, not killed or shunned for being different. Religion and law stayed separate, but it was different for the Morrin and Zecorrans.

  “What about the others in the west? They aren’t mad on religion, and no one can make the Vorga do anything they don’t want to.”

  Carla shrugged. “All people are saying is that something bad happened down in Shael. A massacre, bodies piled tall as trees, cities turned to rubble because they wouldn’t fight. After that it sounds like the others fell in line.”

  “So what happened to King Raeza then? Is he dead?”

  “Looks like. People are saying Taikon killed his father, took the Zecorran throne and now he’s got himself a magician called the Warlock. There’s a dozen stories about that one,” said Carla, wiping the bar with a cloth even though it was already clean. “I heard he can summon things from beyond the Veil.”

  “I didn’t think you were one to believe gossip,” scoffed Vargus.

  Carla gave him a look that made men piss themselves, but it just slid off him. She shook her head, smiling for a moment and then it was gone.

  “I don’t, but I know how to listen and separate the shit from the real gold. Whatever the truth about this Warlock, and the union in the west, I know it means trouble. And lots of it.”

  “War then.”

  Carla nodded. “Maybe they think our King really is a heretic or maybe it’s because they enjoy killing, like the Vorga. Most reckon they’ll be here come spring. Trade routes to the west have dried up in the last few days. Merchants trying to sneak through were caught and hung. Whole trees full of the greedy buggers line the north and southern pass. The crows and magpies are fat as summer solstice pheasants from all their feasting.”

  “What will you do?”

  Carla puffed out her cheeks. “Look after the village, same as always. Fight, if the war comes this far east. Although if it comes here, we’ve already lost. What about you? I suppose you’ll be going to fight?”

  There was that odd tone to her voice again. He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. One wrong word and he’d plummet into the dark.

  “People like you around here. And not just for sorting out the bandits,” said Carla scrubbing the same spot on the bar over and over. “You know I lost my Jintor five winters back from the damp lung. The house is quiet without him, especially now that the children are all grown up. Fourth grandchild will be along any day, but there’s still a lot that needs doing. Looking after the village, working with the other Elders, easily enough work for two.”

  In all the years he’d known her it was the most Vargus had ever heard her say about her needs. The strain was starting to show on her face.

  He settled her frantic hand by wrapping it in both of his. Her skin was rough from years of hard labour, but it was also warm and full of life. For the first time since he’d arrived she looked him in the eye. Her sharp blue eyes were uncertain.

  “I can’t,” Vargus said gently. “It’s not who I am.”

  Carla pulled her hand free and Vargus looked away first, not sure if he was sparing her or himself.

  “What about the legend of the Gath?”

  He dismissed it with a wave. “It was already fading, and me with it. There aren’t many that believe, fewer still that are afraid. It’s my own fault, I guess. I kept it too small for too long. It would only keep me for a few more years at best. This war is my best way.”

  Carla was the only one in the village who knew some of the truth about him. She didn’t claim to understand, but she’d listened and accepted it because of who he was and what he could do. It seemed churlish to hide anything from her at this point. He waited, but to his surprise she didn’t ask for the rest.

  “So you’ll fight?”

  “I will,” declared Vargus. “I’ll travel to Charas to fight and bleed and kill. For the King, for the land and for those who can’t defend themselves. I’ll swear an oath, by the iron in my blood, to fight in the war until it’s done. One way or the other.”

  Carla was quiet for a time. Eventually she shook her head and he thought he saw a tear in her eye, but maybe it was just his imagination.

  “If anyone else said something like that, I’d tell them they were a bloody fool. But they’re not just words with you, are they?”

  “No. It’s my vow. Once made it can’t be broken. If I stay here, I’ll be dead in a few years. At least this way, I have a chance.”

  Reaching under the counter Carla produced a dusty red bottle that was half empty. Taking down two small glasses she poured them each a generous measure of a syrupy blue spirit.

  “Then I wish you luck,” said Carla, raising her glass.

  “I’ll drink to that, and I hope if I ever come back, I’ll still be welcome.”

  “Of course.”

  They tapped glasses and downed the spirit in one gulp. It burned all the way down Vargus’s throat before lighting a pleasant fire in his belly. They talked a while longer, but the important words had been said and his course decided.

  In the morning, Vargus would leave the village that had been his home for the last forty years, and go to war.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE REMNANT,

  look out for

  A CROWN FOR COLD SILVER

  by Alex Marshall

  “It was all going so nicely, right up until the massacre.”

  Twenty years ago, feared general Cobalt Zosia led her five villainous captains and mercenary army into battle, wrestling monsters and toppling an empire. When there were no more titles to win and no more worlds to conquer, she retired and gave up her legend to history.

  Now, the peace she carved for herself has been shattered by the unprovoked slaughter of her village. Seeking bloody vengeance, Zosia heads for battle once more, but to find justice she must confront grudge-bearing enemies, once-loyal allies, and an unknown army that marches under a familiar banner.

  Five villains. One legendary general.

  A final quest for vengeance.

  Chapter 1

  It was all going so nicely, right up until the massacre.

  Sir Hjortt’s cavalry of two hundred spears fanned out through the small village,
taking up positions between half-timbered houses in the uneven lanes that only the most charitable of surveyors would refer to as “roads.” The warhorses slowed and then stopped in a decent approximation of unison, their riders sitting as stiff and straight in their saddles as the lances they braced against their stirrups. It was an unseasonably warm afternoon in the autumn, and after their long approach up the steep valley, soldier and steed alike dripped sweat, yet not a one of them removed their brass skullcap. Weapons, armor, and tack glowing in the fierce alpine sunlight, the faded crimson of their cloaks covering up the inevitable stains, the cavalry appeared to have ridden straight out of a tale, or galloped down off one of the tapestries in the mayor’s house.

  So they must have seemed to the villagers who peeked through their shutters, anyway. To their colonel, Sir Hjortt, they looked like hired killers on horseback barely possessed of sense to do as they were told most of the time. Had the knight been able to train wardogs to ride he should have preferred them to the Fifteenth Cavalry, given the amount of faith he placed in this lot. Not much, in other words, not very much at all.

  He didn’t care for dogs, either, but a dog you could trust, even if it was only to lick his balls.

  The hamlet sprawled across the last stretch of grassy meadow before the collision of two steep, bald-peaked mountains. Murky forest edged in on all sides, like a snare the wilderness had set for the unwary traveler. A typical mountain town here in the Kutumban range, then, with only a low reinforced stone wall to keep out the wolves and what piddling avalanches the encircling slopes must bowl down at the settlement when the snows melted.

  Sir Hjortt had led his troops straight through the open gate in the wall and up the main track to the largest house in the village … which wasn’t saying a whole lot for the building. Fenced in by shedding rosebushes and standing a scant two and a half stories tall, its windowless redbrick face was broken into a grid by the black timbers that supported it. The mossy thatched roof rose up into a witch’s hat, and set squarely in the center like a mouth were a great pair of doors tall and wide enough for two riders to pass through abreast without removing their helmets. As he reached the break in the hedge at the front of the house, Sir Hjortt saw that one of these oaken doors was ajar, but just as he noticed this detail the door eased shut.