The Mercenary Prince (Legends of Windemere Book 9)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “And you remember the exact location of those paths after being in Serab for seventeen years?”

  “Time to call it a night.”

  Tavris laughs as he follows his leader down to the ledge and they jostle Pelo, who has the next watch. The weasel-faced warrior mutters a few curses before clambering up the rocks, returning a minute later to grab his weapons. He is about to complain when Delvin hands him a full coffee pot and enough of his favorite flavor for his friend to make a large brew. Pelo grins and disappears back to his post, the sound of him setting up the dented kettle being heard for a few seconds.

  “You really do know us far too well,” Tavris says before a moth flies into his face. He is about to swat the insect away when a large bat swoops from the sky and devours the annoying pest. “But not well enough that you remember if I hate anything more than giant bugs, it’s large bats. You and I are going to have a long talk over breakfast about payment, Cunningham.”

  *****

  Gerdo hurls his twin broadswords at the incoming beasts and lops the silver antlers off several of the incoming antelope. Before the warrior can catch the returning blades, a gray-furred female rushes him from behind and kicks him in the lower back. With a cursing grunt, the man goes down and rolls away from the stomping hooves of a mottled male. The lithe animals dart through the tall grass and leap high enough to easily kick at Tavris’s face, forcing the towering warrior to constantly duck. His head is already injured from the first glancing blow and he winces every time he moves too quickly. Pelo and Delvin are bleeding from superficial wounds to their arms, but a numbing sensation makes it difficult for them to continue fighting. They try to stay near Scorpion, who is being avoided by the herd as he scrambles to retrieve Gerdo’s fallen swords and get them back to his friend.

  “When you said silver horns, I didn’t know you meant dammahs!” Tavris shouts as he raises his claymore to deflect an incoming pair of barbed hooves. Pressed back by the animal’s powerful legs, the warrior’s muscles strain when he hurls the beast to the side. “These things might not eat meat, but they are vicious when threatened. You should have warned us, so we didn’t march into their path with drawn weapons.”

  “This isn’t my fault,” Delvin says, his sword clanging off the metallic antlers of a large female. Rustling in the grass causes him to freeze and let a trio of fawns race between him and Pelo. “The herd should have been further to the southeast even if their migration changed over the years. We had another day before we even came close. Does anybody have a clue as to the direction they’re going?”

  Pelo slips his scimitar under his leader’s arm to slice a beast across the nose and drive it away. “They’re heading west and I have to agree with you about it not being your fault. The dammahs are spooked and they’re being driven away from their normal route. I don’t think it’s intentional. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That should be our group’s motto,” Scorpion jokes as he throws a few stink bombs into the herd. The sound of gagging and hacking animals is terrifying, but the sudden attacks are reduced immediately. “How much longer do we have to deal with these beasts? They smell the poisons that I use, but the rest of you won’t last much longer.”

  “Well, we’re at the head of the herd and they usually stretch for a couple of miles,” Delvin replies, ignoring the narrow stare from Pelo. He gets his shield up to block a hoof from striking his friend’s shoulder, the impact sending both of them to the ground. “We need to find cover. I see the smoke of an encampment, which the dammahs are running around. Even panicked, they know they can get badly hurt by charging through a tribe’s huts and watchtowers. We’ll make our way there and claim to be a lost mercenary group that got stuck in the stampede. There’s a lot of sympathy toward foreigners who end up at the wrong end of the wildlife. Not that we’d be lying since that is the situation.”

  “It’s as easy as that?” Gerdo asks while he guards Tavris’s back. “You realize nothing has gone our way yet.”

  “It hasn’t been that bad and stuff like this is fairly common,” their leader answers with a smirk. He tries to move forward, but dodges to the side when a yelping male bounds out of the grass and nearly impales him. “Let’s just hope we don’t hear the call. That would make this mess a lot worse.”

  “I think we know what’s about to happen, boys!” Tavris shouts before sheathing his weapon. A dammah leaps at the towering figure, who catches its horns and tosses it into two of its brethren. “Do you ever think before you say those things, Cunningham?”

  A high-pitched call erupts from ahead of the warriors and the sound of rumbling hooves stops. The plains are silent as the dammahs patiently wait for their leader to make a harsh, barking cough. As soon as they hear the noise, the entire herd moves as one and stampedes ahead with their deadly heads down. With a whistle, Delvin waves for his friends to get in formation behind him and face the incoming beasts. Taking up the rear, Tavris is the only one tall enough to see the endless sea of glinting silver antlers heading toward them. The mercenaries move in a tight line behind the grunting champion, his enchanted shield rattled by every deflected blow. A stiff breeze carries the scent of Scorpion’s poisons, which causes the more cautious dammahs to veer around the small group.

  One of the larger beasts barrels into the mercenaries, its antlers cutting Pelo across the chest and Delvin in the back. The warriors are dispersed and lose track of each other in the thundering herd that they struggle to survive. Unable to see his friends, the champion repeatedly shouts to direct them toward the nearby encampment, his voice repeatedly drowned out by the ringing hits to the shield. He hears the others respond and does his best to pinpoint their locations, but it is too difficult due to the pounding hooves that surround him. Praying to Cessia under his breath, the champion pushes forward and bats away the incoming beasts. Each one screams in surprise and a few swerve away to crash into their neighbors, the tumbling dammahs’ legs flipping over the tall grass. One flailing limb strikes Delvin in the head, the blow nearly driving him to the ground where he would certainly be trampled to death. By the time he reaches the edge of the encampment, his body is aching and his chainmail is broken in several places. All he can do is collapse to his knees and watch the enormous herd rush by him.

  “You got more of a beating than the rest of us,” Scorpion whispers as the others walk up behind their leader. The black-clothed man helps the champion stand and gives him a quick check for any serious injuries. “Gerdo and I seem to have escaped unscathed while Tavris and Pelo only have some cuts and bruises. I see some nasty bumps and gashes on you, but those will heal in a few days. Though your eyes are glassy, so you might have a concussion. I guess we should get some rest in this . . .”

  “That wasn’t smoke from a campfire, boss,” Pelo says as he draws his blade.

  “What happened here?” Tavris asks as he takes in the carnage around them.

  “I think this is the Sparrow Tribe,” Delvin answers while pointing to the flapping remains of a flag. The symbol of a small bird on a branch is barely visible beneath thick patches of ash. “I have a bad feeling I should have said that this was the Sparrow Tribe. After all, if there was anyone alive here then they would have approached us by now.”

  The mercenaries look at the smoking remains of the encampment, the wooden huts still dotted with shining embers. Toppled watchtowers have been strewn across the matted clearing and the fleshy remains of a few bodies can be seen under the wreckage. Personal effects have been destroyed and scattered, some of them having been used to set the fires that ravaged the small tribe. Shredded tents can be seen in the distance, the exposed food already covered in coin-sized flies. A putrid stench fills the air and it gets worse as the men move further into the decimation, their boots crunching on the dead ground. They can still hear the dammahs racing by, but the herd is hidden by the healthy plants that surround the encampment.

  “Is there a war going on here?” Gerdo asks when he bends d
own to lift a door. He slowly lowers the planks when he sees the crushed body underneath. “Whoever did this has killed women, children, and the elderly. I can see a few warriors among the dead, but this looks more like a massacre than battle.”

  “This isn’t how the tribes do war,” Delvin says while he shakes the stars from his eyes. He runs a hand through his brown hair, smearing some of the blood from his head wound through the tangled tresses. “There’s something wrong on the plains. I have a feeling that it’s something worse than war. My head hurts too much for me to figure out what else it could be, but I know this is too . . . sadistic for the tribes. Does anybody else taste something sour in the wind?”

  “I smell something acrid,” Scorpion admits while he wanders behind a smoldering hut. “You guys stay here while I check something out. At least stay in the main area. I should be back in a minute or two.”

  Tavris grips his sword and approaches the open entrance of the biggest hut, the symbol of the Path Lord shattered against a nearby stone. The warrior has to duck to slip his head into the ruined structure and the collapsed ceiling prevents him from going beyond the doorway. All of the smoke forces him to squint into the gloom. Tavris recoils when he recognizes the form of an eviscerated, splayed corpse on ground. The sudden movement causes him to hit his head on the doorframe, which shakes the hut and causes it to collapse entirely.

  “I agree with, Delvin. This is sick,” Tavris announces as he returns to the others. With a powerful grip, he catches Pelo by the shoulder and stops the man from investigating the fallen hut. “I see a meticulous attention to pain and suffering here, which makes me think this was a grudge-based attack. A war over territory doesn’t usually involve actions that come off as personal. More importantly, we’d see more warriors among the dead if it was a large scale battle. Unless the opposing side captured all able-bodied men and women. Is cannibalism a problem around here?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but who knows at this point,” Delvin replies while putting an arm around Gerdo’s shoulders. The warrior groans and rapidly blinks his eyes, the pain in his skull growing stronger. “I don’t feel very good. The blow to the head might have been worse than I thought. I don’t see any chairs around here, not that I would use one anyway.”

  “I hope your tribe is still around,” Gerdo says, adjusting his friend and wincing from an ache in his side. Everyone looks at him with wide eyes, the expressions making the lanky warrior sweat. “Like the rest of you hadn’t considered the possibility? This scene doesn’t make me feel good about our chances. Not that I’m saying we should head back to Serab, but we should consider that the people we’re looking for are already dead.”

  “I say we search for the Osprey Tribe no matter what,” Tavris declares with a crack of his knuckles. He freezes when a young dammah bounds around a corner and disappears into the tall grass, its departure signifying the passing of the herd. “This journey is to help our friend settle his past and that includes finding out that his tribe is no more. I say we find a place to rest and keep moving once we’re in better shape. With all of this going on, I’m pretty sure a fight is in our future.”

  “We should prepare funerals for the Sparrows too,” Pelo mentions as he bends down to clear wood off a dead woman. A dagger strikes the ground at his feet, causing the bald man to stumble away and draw his scimitar. “The hell are you doing, Scorpion? Has your mask cut off the air to your brain?”

  “Don’t touch any of the bodies and follow me!” the black-clothed warrior shouts before plunging back into the tall grass.

  Delvin pushes away from Gerdo and forces himself to follow his friend, the others swiftly walking ahead of him. “This is only going to get worse. Even if you don’t have your magic back, I really wish you were with me, Nyx.”

  *****

  When the vile stench becomes too much, the mercenaries cover their mouths and noses with scented rags that Scorpion hands out. He slows down to allow Delvin to keep up, the champion trying his best to fight against his concussion. A rapid bubbling sound can be heard to their left and it reminds them of soup being overheated. After five minutes of walking, the tall grass shows signs of a blight that has covered them in black spots. The tops of some of the blades have become bloated orbs that Scorpion warns against touching. Their progress is gradual as the warriors move around the dangerous spore sacs and stumble over the occasional carcass of a dammah. The bodies are nothing more than rotting meat on silver bones, the exposed organs releasing a hazy steam. As the mercenaries continue, they imitate their black-clothed friend and hunker down to hide in the tall grass. Eventually they are on all fours, which helps them avoid the fragile orbs and rapidly decaying corpses.

  Scorpion signals for his friends to join him before he sticks his face through a thicker area of the grasses. The natural wall is entirely black, which makes the warriors believe they are at the source of the blight. A constant wave of heat can been seen in the air above their heads and it is close enough to make them sweat. Every movement is met with the gentle crunch that they soon realize is coming from the mass of cooked insects beneath their feet. Not sure what else they should do, the mercenaries imitate Scorpion and peek through the barrier.

  With dry throats and tearing eyes, the men stare at the corrupted watering hole that is fringed with dead animals. The pool is bubbling from the heat-inducing toxin that a quartet of black-skinned creatures have pumped into the water. Filthy rags and empty eyes reveal their undead nature, but their ability to walk across the lake confuses most of the mercenaries. As if one creature, they double over to vomit crimson poison and swirl the toxic liquid with their long fingers. With a howling scream, the four monsters hold hands and spin to create a compact whirlwind that roils the water. Another wave of heat erupts and drives the mercenaries further into the tall grass.

  “How did you check this place out and get back to us so quickly?” Pelo asks as they move far enough away to speak. The bald man is about to stand for another look at the creatures, but is yanked back down by Gerdo. “Don’t worry. Their eyes are so putrid that I doubt they can see very far.”

  “Wights rely more on smell, so we’re fine as long as the wind doesn’t change,” Scorpion explains, two daggers appearing in his hands. He dips the blades into one of the containers on his belt, the weapons coming out glistening with blue ooze. “I didn’t come out here. When we were in the encampment, I heard the dammahs leaping over something to the east. It got me curious and I investigated. They were avoiding a toxic river. Knowing that the source is upstream, I got all of you and I followed the sound of running water to get us here. Track a river and you’re bound to find something. Rather basic wilderness strategy that you taught me, Pelo.”

  The weasel-faced man grins and licks his lips. “I haven’t used that old trick in years. No wonder I forgot it. Do we have a way to kill . . . whatever those things are?”

  “All of us really need to start carrying bows or something for range,” Gerdo says, winking at Delvin, who curses under his breath. The smiling mercenary pats the bow on Tavris’s back, reminding everyone that the weapon exists. “Wights can be as easy to kill as zombies, but they’re deadlier. You never know what type of poison they’re packing until they attack or corrupt the area. These were made with a heat toxin that can melt a victim from the inside out. At the end of their fingers are retractable nails that act like needles, so we need to stay out of reach. I guess Tavris is the best one for the job as long as he knows how to use that thing. The only time I’ve ever seen him use a bow is when he takes one from an enemy archer and beats them over the head with it.”

  “I know enough to get by,” Tavris claims as he draws the weapon and fumbles with an arrow. The others try not to groan, but the warrior can tell they are worried. “A small question about wights. It looks like the poison is on the inside and this stuff melts things. Will regular arrows do anything?”

  “No . . . I guess we’re back to the beginning,” Scorpion states before taking another peek at
the creatures. They are on the shore and feasting on the melting carcass of a hooded lion, the smell of burning fur filling the man’s nostrils. “These things get strength from the corruption around them too, so they’re currently enhanced. I have a . . . trick that can cleanse the area, but it takes a lot of focus and the wights would be on me too quickly. The other problem is that I have a counter toxin that could hurt them, but not enough to coat all of our blades. I might be able to coat four of Tavris’s arrowheads, but that means he can’t miss a single shot.”

  “I’m not that good, guys,” the large warrior admits, his eyes on the bow that suddenly feels like a waste of money. “Any other plans?”

  “How would that counter toxin work?” Delvin asks while he rubs his temples. A ringing in his ears makes it difficult to concentrate, but he pushes through the pain. “Do you need to get it on them or into their bodies? Also, how much would you need to hit them with?”

  While staring at the distant clouds, Scorpion considers the questions. “This stuff is potent, so a few drops into the head or heart should travel throughout the entire body within a second or two. Hitting the limbs and stomach would only cause damage to the surrounding flesh. Keep in mind that this is usually used to cure infected people, so it will work differently on a creature made from the poison. The counter toxin should freeze the wights to the point where their own weight will cause them to shatter. Still, I don’t have enough to use on all of us and I can’t take on four by myself while purifying the area.”

  “What about coating only the points and we use the edges to make an opening?”