“Then they are weakened enough that we can defeat them,” said Athanaric.
“Perhaps,” said Aegidia, thin fingers drumming against the bronze wood of her staff. “But there are no Malrags here. The lords of the Grim Marches were victorious. They are battle-hardened, and know how to fight. A battle against them would be risky.”
“I know,” said Athanaric, “yet I see no better option.”
“Maybe we can make peace with the lords of the Grim Marches,” said Aegidia.
Athanaric barked out a laugh. “Forgive me, Guardian, but that’s not likely. We have invaded their homes and raided their villages. If these lords were strong enough to fight the Malrags, they won’t hesitate to fight us.”
“Yet maybe they will see wisdom,” said Riothamus. “We have seen so many empty villages. The Malrags seem to have killed most of the people in the entire southeastern quarter of the Grim Marches. We could easily settle there without disturbing the rest of the villages.”
“Settle there as what?” said Athanaric. “As the thralls of the lords? Have we escaped from the Malrags and the Dark Elderborn only to end as slaves to the lords of the Grim Marches?”
“We could negotiate from a position of strength,” said Aegidia.
“To do that, we must first have a position of strength, Guardian,” said Athanaric. “And to gain that position of strength, we must win victories. I hope you are right, that we can find a way to live in peace with the folk of the Grim Marches. I am weary of killing. But until the Tervingi are safe, I will fight.”
They marched on.
###
The next day they found a village Ragnachar’s thains had raided.
Unlike Athanaric, Ragnachar’s men had made no effort to be merciful.
Every house in the village had burned, smoke still rising from the charred stone walls. Corpses lay scattered down its main street – the defenders, Riothamus realized, slain as they fought to protect their homes.
A much larger pile of corpses lay in the center of the village.
The women and children.
Riothamus’s hands curled into fists, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. This village looked no different than dozens of Tervingi holds he had seen, holds where the Malrags had slaughtered the bondsmen and burned the houses. It looked no different than his father’s hold, after the Malrags had come.
“Why?” demanded Riothamus, as Aegidia and Athanaric looked over the wreckage. “Why did he do this?”
Athanaric shook his head, face grim. “Probably because they defied him. Ragnachar was never one to show mercy, not for any reason.”
“He is no better than a Malrag!” said Riothamus.
“He is a hrould of the Tervingi,” said Aegidia.
“To hell with him!” said Riothamus, turning away from the piled dead. “We fled our homeland because the Malrags did this to us! And now we do the same thing to the folk of the Grim Marches. How are we any better than the Malrags?”
“We did what was necessary…” began Athanaric.
“You did what was necessary,” said Riothamus. “I was not happy about taking the villagers’ food, aye, but you left them enough that they will not starve, and you did not slaughter them.” He shook his head, the anger building within him. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to draw on his magic and rip lightning down from the sky. “He did the same with the Jutai. And now he does the same to the folk of the Grim Marches.”
“It is deplorable, yes, but he is still Tervingi,” said Aegidia.
“And you countenance this?” said Riothamus, glaring at her.
Aegidia would not meet his gaze. Riothamus was stunned. She was the Guardian of the Tervingi nation, the mightiest wielder of magic he had ever encountered…and she could not meet his gaze when he spoke of Ragnachar.
“What is it?” said Riothamus. “What hold does he have over you? You never confront him, never challenge him.”
“Enough!” said Athanaric. “This quarreling achieves us nothing. Yes, I do not care for Ragnachar. But if we fight amongst ourselves now, the lords of the Grim Marches will crush us utterly. We must move on.”
Athanaric and his men left the dead village behind.
But the images of the slain burned in Riothamus’s mind.
###
They came across Ragnachar’s camp later that day.
The sun touched the western horizon, turning the endless plains the color of blood. Ragnachar’s warband, four hundred warriors and twenty mammoths, camped on the bank of a creek. A dozen orcragars patrolled the boundaries of the camp, their ragged black cloaks fluttering in the breeze.
Athanaric grunted. “Best we camp separately. Ragnachar’s pet orcragars are ill-tempered, and will kill a man for looking at them the wrong away.”
Riothamus stared at the camp. No doubt the orcragars and thains rested from their slaughter at the village. He heard laughter and carousing from within the camp, along with an occasional Tervingi war song. They were celebrating what they had done…
Something inside his mind snapped.
He found himself stalking toward the camp, ignoring Aegidia’s shouts. One of the orcragars blocked his way, sneering. The setting sun painted the scars on the man’s cheeks and forehead with bloody light.
“One Athanaric’s dogs?” said the orcragar. “Go slinking back to your master.”
“I will see Ragnachar now,” said Riothamus.
The orcragar laughed. “You will not, fool. Ragnachar is making his devotions to the mighty Urdmoloch. A craven woman like you is not welcome. Go crawl back to Athanaric and lick the feeble old fool’s boots.”
“I am Riothamus son of Rigotharic,” said Riothamus, “the apprentice of the Guardian, and I will speak with Ragnachar.”
The orcragar growled. “The old hag’s pet? Run off, now, before I get angry.”
“You will let me through,” said Riothamus, “or you’ll see what a witcher can do when he gets angry.”
They stared at each other for a moment, but the orcragar blinked first.
“Fine,” he said, stepping aside. “You want to see Ragnachar, go. I’ll laugh when he tears your heart out.”
Riothamus stalked past without another word.
And as the orcragar had promised, he found Ragnachar in the midst of a ceremony.
The sight was so bizarre that Riothamus froze, his rage forgotten.
A score of orcragars stood in a ring at the center of the camp, Ragnachar at their head. A swordthain knelt before Ragnachar, one of the Jutai men who had sworn to the hrould. Ragnachar held up his left hand, blood glimmering in his palm.
“Do you pledge yourself to the Urdmoloch?” said Ragnachar. “Do you give your soul to him?”
“I so swear,” said the swordthain.
“Then receive his gift and his blessing,” said Ragnachar, “in this blood.”
And he turned his hand and let the blood drip into the swordthain’s opened mouth.
The swordthain screamed and collapsed to the ground, thrashing as if poisoned. Two of the orcragars seized him, pinned his arms and legs in place. Ragnachar knelt, drew a dagger from his belt, and carved the image of an eye onto the trembling man’s forehead and cheeks.
“Rise, then,” said Ragnachar, “as a wielder of demon power and rage, as an orcragar.”
The new-made orcragar climbed to his feet. And as Riothamus watched, the bleeding cuts on his brow and forehead healed, leaving only the livid scars of an orcragar.
How was that even possible?
Then Riothamus remembered his fury, and dismissed the question for later.
“Ragnachar!” he shouted.
The cold eyes of the orcragars fell upon him, like a pack of wolves considering a sheep.
But Riothamus was no sheep.
He stalked closer. Ragnachar gazed at him without expression, a statue of black metal in his armor.
“What did you wish?” said the hrould.
“That village,” said Riothamus.
“What about it?” said Ragnachar.
“You murdered everyone there,” said Riothamus.
“I did not,” said Ragnachar.
“You deny that you killed them?”
“Of course not,” said Ragnachar. “I deny that I murdered them. Murder is an unlawful killing, and there is no such thing as unlawful killing. There are only the strong and the weak. The strong may take what they like from the weak. Including their lives, if necessary.”
“Spare me the ravings of your damned Urdmoloch,” said Riothamus.
An angry rumble went through the orcragars, and some of them reached for their weapons, but Ragnachar himself remained calm.
“That is the truth of life itself,” said Ragnachar. “If you are too weak to see it, that is not my concern.”
“Why did you kill those villagers?” said Riothamus.
“Because I said I would,” said Ragnachar. “I told the villagers that if they did not surrender, I would kill every living thing within their walls. They did not surrender, and so I killed them all. I do not make threats unless I intend to fulfill them. Perhaps the next village will think twice before refusing to yield to me.”
“You’re a fool, and a murderous one,” said Riothamus. Again an angry mutter went through the orcragars. “You’ve slain innocent people, and ruined any chance that we might have peace with the lords of the Grim Marches…”
Ragnachar’s lip twitched in a sneer of contempt. “Peace? There is no such thing. Life is endless struggle. The strong do what they like, and the weak suffer what they must. We shall either destroy the lords of the Grim Marches, or they will destroy us. Such is the way of the world.”
“This is madness,” said Riothamus. “Do you want to destroy the Tervingi? With this butchery, you are well on your way…”
“Stop taking,” said Ragnachar.
The hrould moved in a blur.
One moment he stood on the far side of the ring of orcragars. The next he stood before Riothamus, his hand clamped around Riothamus’s throat. Riothamus clawed at Ragnachar’s wrist, but the hrould’s arm was like a bar of iron.
And through it all Ragnachar’s calm expression never changed.
“The Guardian is fond of you,” said Ragnachar. “She can always find another pet. I think I’ll enjoy watching you die.”
Riothamus tried to summon power for a spell, but his vision was going black, a horrible rushing noise filling his ears…
The world white went as a lightning blast screamed out of the sky and exploded against the ground.
When his sight cleared, Riothamus found himself on the ground, coughing and wheezing. The orcragars likewise lay scattered like dry leaves. Only Ragnachar remained standing, his greatsword in his right hand.
Aegidia stood facing him, the staff of the Guardian extended.
“You will let him go, Ragnachar,” said Aegidia.
“Will I, old woman?” said Ragnachar.
“You will,” said Aegidia.
Ragnachar smiled. “Or?”
“You know what will happen,” said Aegidia.
“Are you so certain you can defeat me?” said Ragnachar. “I have grown stronger, while you have become old and feeble.”
“I am not at all certain I could defeat you,” said Aegidia. “Nevertheless. If you don’t let him go, you will face me. So the question is whether or not you are certain that you can defeat me.”
For a long moment they stared at each other, the Guardian and the hrould.
“Take him and go,” said Ragnachar.
“Riothamus,” said Aegidia. “Get up.”
Riothamus scrambled to his feet and joined Aegidia.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Riothamus son of Rigotharic,” said Ragnachar, voice quiet.
Riothamus hesitated, turned. Ragnachar gazed at him, face expressionless.
“Remember what I said about threats,” said Ragnachar.
Riothamus shivered and followed Aegidia out of the camp.
###
“Your courage shames me,” said Aegidia, voice quiet.
They stood halfway between Ragnachar’s and Athanaric’s camps. Riothamus had expected the orcragars to attack them, but no one had followed.
Even the orcragars knew better than to challenge the Guardian.
“I do not question Ragnachar as much as I should,” said Aegidia.
“Why not?” said Riothamus, rubbing his sore throat. Aegidia had recited one of her healing spells over him, repairing the damage Ragnachar had done. He suspected the ache would take days to fade, though.
“Perhaps it is time,” said Aegidia. “There are secrets that only the Guardian knows, secrets that you must know, one day, when you take up my staff.” She leaned against the staff for a moment, gazing at the night sky. “Tell me of the Urdmoloch.”
“The Urdmoloch?” Riothamus shrugged. “I know only what you have told me. He was the ancient demon who destroyed the realm of the High Elderborn. He still wanders the world today, working evil. Or so the stories say. Ragnachar and his thugs worship him, believing that he will bestow power upon them if they work his will.”
“The stories say it true,” said Aegidia. “The Urdmoloch does wander the world, sowing evil as a farmer sows seeds. And Ragnachar is of his blood.”
Riothamus blinked. “You mean…Ragnachar has a demon’s blood?”
“He does,” said Aegidia. “He is the Urdmoloch’s son. His strength, his speed, his prowess in battle, all come from the demon’s blood that fills his veins.”
“Why do you not denounce him to the moot?” said Riothamus. “Some of the greatest heroes of the Tervingi have had demon’s blood, aye. But so have some of our blackest villains.”
“Because no one would believe me,” said Aegidia. “Or, rather, the Tervingi who follow the old gods would not believe that Ragnachar has demon’s blood. Those who worship the Urdmoloch would hold it a point in his favor. And if I pushed the matter, it would come to civil war among the Tervingi. That would destroy us, especially now.”
“And if it came to a fight,” said Riothamus, thinking it over, “you don’t think you could win against him.” He shook his head. “Even with all your power?”
“I am the Guaridan, and I will not use my power to kill. I might be able to overcome him,” said Aegidia. “But his demon blood grants him tremendous speed and power, and the ability to heal even fatal wounds almost instantaneously.” She sighed. “How I have failed. Even more than you know, boy. Even more that you know.”
“What do you mean?” said Riothamus.
“What is the purpose of the Guardian?” said Aegidia.
“To defend the Tervingi from dark magic,” said Riothamus.
“Yes,” said Aegidia. “But that is secondary. The main duty of the Guardian is twofold. To defend against the Urdmoloch.” She hefted her staff. “And to hold this staff in trust, until the Guardian finds the one destined to face the Urdmoloch.”
“I don’t understand,” said Riothamus.
“This staff,” said Aegidia, “is ancient. The Tervingi nation is only a few centuries old, after all, born when Tervingar freed the slaves and led them north. The High Elderborn who opposed the Urdmoloch made this staff and created the office of Guardian. And so the staff has been passed down from Guardian to Guardian for centuries beyond count.”
“Until you find the one destined to defeat the Urdmoloch,” said Riothamus. A flash of insight came to him. “The man in golden armor with the sword of blue flame! He is the one destined to defeat the Urdmoloch?”
“Yes,” said Aegidia. “But he is destined to face the Urdmoloch. Whether he defeats the Urdmoloch or not…that is in his hands, not ours.”
“This man is in the Grim Marches?” said Riothamus.
“Yes,” said Aegidia. “The destiny of the Tervingi rests in the Grim Marches, in the hands of the man in golden armor. We must find him. We must keep the Tervingi safe, both from our enemies and from Ragnachar.” Her thin hands clutc
hed the bronze staff. “I have made many failures, Riothamus. But in this…in this we must not fail.”
###
A skythain landed at dawn the next morning.
Both Athanaric’s and Ragnchar’s skythains had flown all over the Grim Marches, scouting and mapping the land.
And the skythains bore dire news.
The Tervingi had taken the Grim Marches by surprise, but the lords had gathered for war. Great masses of horsemen and infantry had assembled, and marched east to face the invaders.
“They are coming for us,” said Athanaric. “This battle shall decide our fate. We shall either claim a new homeland here, or they shall destroy us.”
Both he and Ragnachar sent out messages with the skythains, ordering the host of the Tervingi to assemble for war.
Chapter 12 – Swordthains
The day after the tournament, Mazael rode east.
Most of his knights and vassals had gathered for the tournament, so it had been easy enough to prepare them for war. He rode at the head of four hundred knights and armsmen, all them armored in chain or plate and equipped with maces and swords and lances. Behind them rode four hundred mounted archers from Cravenlock Town’s militia, equipped with swords and short bows. Sir Tanam Crowley’s two hundred raiders screened the main column, scouting for the enemy. Every last man had fought against the Malrags, and many wore necklaces made of Malrag fangs.
Romaria rode at Mazael’s side, bastard sword slung over her back. Behind her came Timothy and Lucan, wrapped in their black wizards’ coats, and Molly, a black shadow in her own dark clothing. Sir Hagen commanded the armsmen, and Sir Aulus Hirtan, Mazael’s herald, carried the black Cravenlock banner with its three crossed swords.
A strong force, veteran and well-equipped, capable of dealing with most enemies. Though Mazael didn't know what sort of enemy they faced. Some scouts spoke of black-armored raiders, killing everything in their path. Others described ragged barbarians who stole food and moved on to the next target. Still others claimed to have seen giant beasts that crushed anything in their path.
The barbarian invaders must have split into multiple groups, rampaging through the countryside. Mazael planned to hit them one by one, overwhelming the warbands before they could regroup. Sooner or later word would spread, and the barbarian attackers would gather their forces.
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