“Corporal Beckett?” Oberyn asked the stranger with a firm voice.
“Hrraa!” the figure hissed in response to the stimulus, and charged.
Dunwood’s training strained to calculate a proper martial response in the narrow lane between homes. Knowing that a good offense is often the best defense, he took three steps back to the edge of the alley’s entrance, set his shield and braced his legs with a foot and a half of long sword serving as a spear. He hoped the torch light would give him a chance to identify the threat before he had to kill them.
It took two seconds for the bulky attacker to storm down the length of the alleyway, bellowing and growling. He attacked Dunwood with raised, wild arms and a lunging bite.
Dunwood knew his assailant to be Beckett before the light illuminated his face. A glint of light off the dress double chevron corporal insignia on his lapel told him the man was Beckett. Dunwood had dressed the man down on numerous occasions in private for wearing the golden insignia instead of the black fabric rank markers. They were too shiny. They would give his position away at night.
“Dammit,” Dunwood said as Beckett’s slavering, growling undead body smashed into his shield, impaling itself on his sword. Almost a foot of raw, blood stained blade came out the dead man’s backside, but the piercing didn’t fell him. The sergeant blasted his shoulder and all his strength into the back of the shield as he yanked his blade out. Beckett’s undead body backpedaled but stayed afoot. Dunwood did the same, moving into the open space of the street so he could fight properly. Fight as he had been trained. His friend deserved a professional death.
Beckett’s undead fury propelled him forward again, uncaring for his safety and devoid of any kind of tactical sense. To attack an armored and well-armed foe with nothing but your bare hands and teeth could was foolish. It could end only one way. With guilt on Dunwood’s part.
Oberyn braced again for Beckett’s suicidal charge—could it be called suicidal if he was already dead?—and just as the undead man brought both arms down in a titanic blow, Dunwood stepped aside. Both arms came down on nothing, and the sergeant slashed downward at the left arm of his former soldier, and former friend. The arm almost came clean off at the elbow, connected only by a shred of tendon and ligament, and the blow sent Beckett staggering forward, almost on tilt.
“Grraaar!” Beckett hissed like an enraged, feral animal. He spun and came at Dunwood again, and the soldier responded with the time-tested second parry.
As the one good arm came down Oberyn raised his shield upwards, stopping the blow before it could come down and generate any force. At the same instant he stabbed forward and upward at the neck of his enemy-friend. His aim was true, and the blade sharp enough. The entire three foot length slid into the neck of the dead man, impaling him, almost severing the spine in the process and giving Dunwood control over his attacker’s savage body.
The warrior kept the shield high to defend against the lone remaining arm smashing at him as he twisted the sword, forcing Beckett’s body to the ground. The man snarled as his torso twisted and his back hit the ground hard. Dunwood’s sword came free of the throat as the man fell away. He pressed the final step of the execution, and hacked downward at Beckett’s neck from the side with the severed arm dangling. The blade hit just below the jaw line, lodging in the tough bone and tissue of the spinal cord, and ending the undead man’s unnatural evil existence. A look of serenity came over Beckett’s blood covered face, and Dunwood felt a terrible guilt swoon over him. Beckett would have no afterlife, and he deserved one.
“I’m so sorry Beckett,” Dunwood said as he leaned over to wrench his blade free.
“I’m not,” another voice said.
Dunwood tried to leap away from the too-close voice but he couldn’t before he felt a sharp burning sensation in the small of his back, just above the belt, and just below his armor. He still dove over the body of his friend, landing on his shield and barrel-rolling to a defensive crouch. He spun fast and saw his original prey.
Peiron Fitch.
He held a bloody dagger in his right hand.
“What have you done?” Dunwood barked at him.
“I’ve stabbed you,” Peiron said, holding up the bloody knife. Peiron pointed at Dunwood’s back. “Right there. I would’ve imagined the pain you’re in would’ve told you that.”
Dunwood’s mind wandered to the scalding hot shard of iron that he imagined inside his kidney. The wound was bad, but if he could get to an apostle to heal him... A different apostle... He would live. He’d had as bad before. Worse even. “May the dead damn you Fitch. Why the treachery?” Dunwood asked as he straightened and stood. The pain ripped into him as if he’d been run through with a fresh spear. He circled around Beckett’s corpse and closed the distance to his new threat. Fitch backed away like the coward he was.
“I betrayed no one I am truthful to. I have always served my Queen. You were duped all along,” Fitch said with relish. He’d wanted to say that for years. Wearing a mask could be stifling work.
“Bastard. You killed the other Apostles didn’t you?” Dunwood asked as the pain in his back intensified further and spread. It felt as if the stab wound kept opening wider and longer, running the length of his own spinal cord and exposing his insides to the cold night air. It felt as if he were about to split wide open and fall apart right there in the Ockham street.
“I did,” Fitch said indifferently, slowly backing away down the street towards where the fire crews were. “Each and every Apostle that can do a sending spell has been killed by this very dagger, or my own spells. A good job done, I would say.”
Dunwood felt his guts roil. “You never sent the message to Daris did you?”
“Nope.”
“Then...” Dunwood’s stomach heaved suddenly, and he vomited the evening meal he’d taken. Chewed bits of meat and potato fell to the street, covered in wine and bile.
“Your village will fall. Tonight. You fire crews are misled, and many of your archers are dead too. The empire comes at dawn for this little shithole village, and tomorrow, we head even further south into your precious homeland. Soon, Daris too will fall to the army of The Purple Queen. An army made of your own fallen warriors.”
Dunwood threw up again. He felt a tingle in his fingertips, and the strength in his hands began to falter. His sword fell to the dirt with a thump. “You poisoned me.”
“Yeah. I’m not very good at fighting fair am I?” Fitch said with childish glee as he flung Dunwood’s blood off the dagger to the dirt below. He sheathed it at his hip, content.
“Marcus will kill you,” Dunwood said as the tingle made its way to his feet. The strength in his legs failed him and he dropped to both knees, propping himself upright with the side edge of his shield. “He is a knight. You’ll die before you go free.”
Peiron shrugged. “Death is not the end, Sergeant. If I die, my Queen’s necromancers will see to it I live on forever as a Wight, or maybe something even more powerful. So even if your Knight Major manages to kill me, I’ll still win. The Purple Throne will move to Daris before spring, I feel.”
Dunwood’s vision began to blur. “Not if he burns you. And he will Fitch. Mark my words. My lord will burn you to ash before you get your second life. And your Empire... It will fail. Varrlanders are stronger than your kind. Loyalty always trumps treachery. You piece of shit.”
Peiron felt a bit of his own roil in his belly. Fire had never been his friend, even this night as it burned his enemies. “Well, enjoy dying. I’m sure your friends will have a good time killing an armored zombie inside the city. It’s a shame you didn’t wear your helm tonight. I’m off to hide away someplace dark, deep, and quiet and await the good General’s army. Do have fun killing your friends later.”
Dunwood fell face down in the street as the poison coursed through his veins.
Private Hester ran down the streets of Ockham’s Fringe with wild abandon. Sergeant Dunwood’s order to report to the Knight Major had lit a fire unde
r his ass, and inside the young soldier knew that he had no time to waste. Hester somehow outran the falling arrows and managed to deflect away those that kept pace with him using his small steel shield. Sweat escaped from under his heavy steel helm and ran down his face, stinging his eyes and teasing his tongue with the taste of salt and steel.
Soldiers standing guard outside Howard’s Inn and Brewery leapt to action when he rounded the corner, drawing their blades and stretching bowstrings in his direction. He did look to be a mad attacker.
“Halt!” One of the senior guards hollered. In the dark, Hester thought the man was a corporal. The same rank as the missing Beckett.
“It’s Private Hester! I’ve word from Sergeant Dunwood for the Knight Major! Don’t shoot me!” he said with strained, empty lungs. He tried to stop his forward progress, but he had too much momentum, and started to lose his balance.
Perhaps out of fear, one of the archers let loose an arrow. The corporal yelled, “No! Cease fire!”
But it was too late to stop the arrow. The broad head of the projectile had been forged and sharpened to pierce flesh and light armor, and then cut a wide swath through the heart and lungs. It existed to kill, and the tiny spirit inside the arrow knew not of who or what it would kill, or even why it had been sent from its brother bow. All it knew was the joy of purpose, and in the vibration of its flight, it knew all was right in the world.
Hester toppled as the arrow dove straight at the center of his chest. Time dilated and stretched, warping so he could see the rotation of the arrow as it came first for his chest, then as he fell his neck, then his face, eventually leveling off at his eye. The young private closed his eyes and lowered his head.
The arrow his the top of his tapered steel helm with the force of a hammer, ringing a bell inside his skull that would deafen him for hours, and make all the lights of the night trace in his vision as if they had been teased with The Way. The tight spin of the arrow sent it off the helmet and down his back where it skipped off the steel rings bound to his leather armor. Hester went face first into the cobblestone street not ten paces from the door of Howard’s tavern.
The massive Howard exited the entryway cleaning a mug with a rag that should’ve been thrown away days ago. He looked on as the guards stood frozen, unsure of what to do next. The inn keep and brewer chuckled. “He said he had a message for Marcus. Marcus is inside, as is an apostle who can tend to that knock to the head. I’ll pour a glass of red for him.”
The burly old man turned and walked back inside his establishment as the archer who nearly killed his friend and another guard picked up Hester and dragged him through the open door.
“I’m so sorry,” the archer said minutes later to Hester with huge eyes and shaking hands. He, Howard, and the private with the message for Marcus had moved inside the tavern. Marcus had gone back to bar business, and the two soldiers were reorganizing themselves after the incident outside. They had the space to themselves, and the quiet had an unsettling feeling to it. As if something really loud was supposed to happen any moment now.
Hester blinked repeatedly and bobbed his head up and down nodding that it was okay. “It’s alright; I shouldn’t have approached you so fast. I should’ve done it differently. It’s not your fault.”
“You’re not an undead. Or an Empire soldier. I could’ve killed you,” the archer realized quietly.
“That is the point of firing an arrow at someone,” Knight Major Marcus Gray said as he descended the stairs into the bar area. He wore his full field armor gleaming in the lantern light with his red cloak trailing behind. Under his left arm Marcus cradled his helm. The same arm had his bright red shield strapped to the forearm. His sword hung on his left hip just below the helmet.
The two military men in the bar hushed and stood, saluting their commanding officer. Howard poured three ales on the bar and pushed them out for the men to take when they were ready for a drink. He returned to cleaning mugs and keeping out of military business.
“I know sir,” the archer said. “I just wish I’d taken a moment longer before letting the arrow fly.”
“Howard poured us drinks and I think we need them. Hester? That’s your name right? And you’re Private Stone, yes?” Marcus asked as he guided the two exhausted and nervous men from their table to Howard’s bar. He rested his shield against the side of the bar and sat his polished helm on the counter and then indicated to the men that they should indulge. They picked up the mugs with trembling hands and drank deep. The ale seemed to soothe them.
“How do you do that?” Hester asked his commander.
“Do what?” Marcus asked back as he too took a drink. He spat out a tiny fleck of old food that Howard’s dirty rag had missed.
“Remember all of our names? And look so put together. Your armor is perfect, you’re calm. You must be going out of your mind with worry, and yet here you stand, setting the example.”
Marcus took another swig from his mug and drank down the debris that floated its way into his mouth. He sat the mug down and looked at his two soldiers. He pulled the helm over so it sat closer to them. “This helmet looks perfect, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Aye Knight Major,” the archer said.
“Look closer,” Marcus said with a wink.
The two men leaned in to scour the helm with their eyes. Very quickly Hester leaned back, a bit of shock to his face. “It’s well beaten up. Nicked and scared.”
“But taken well care of. I’ve a close friend in the Guild. She’s taken good care of my implements of war,” Marcus said before trailing off in winsome thought. He resumed, “But, like my armor and my body, I am but a tool of war. No matter how much polishing I do, when I do what I must I am damaged, and must repair once more. The point is not to avoid being damaged, or to hide that damage, but to be the man who weathers that damage, and then go back into the fray once more, because that is what I do.”
“That is what we do,” the archer said softly.
“Until we join the ancestors in the afterlife, or return to our civilian ways yes, we have chosen to go into the fray. I look organized and calm because I have accepted that I am here because I wish to be. Not for glory, but for the greater good of my fellow men and women, and my nation. Panic and disorganization doesn’t help me, so I’ve done away with it.”
“You’ve purpose,” Hester said, drinking again from his mug.
“Aye, I do. Now you’ve come to give me more purpose yes? What message have you from Sergeant Dunwood?” Marcus pushed his empty mug away and listened intently to his man.
“Corporal Beckett is gone. He went into an alley with Minister Fitch right before the Empire arrows came, and he never returned. His absence led to the men wasting time fighting fires that they couldn’t put out. Dunwood sent me here to tell you that we found blood in the alley Beckett and Fitch went into, and that Dunwood believes Fitch might be responsible for his death. He said he thought Fitch was a double agent.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed as his mind searched for threads of evidence. The picture of his reality sharpened with the idea of the apostle being a turncoat. It explained much.”Where is the Sergeant now? Do you know if Beckett’s body has been recovered yet?” Marcus asked, concern in his expression.
“He went after the trail of blood. Before I left we’d not found Beckett either, sir. Dunwood wants to find Fitch,” Hester said after downing his ale with a final gulp.
“And now so do I. Are you two gentlemen ready to join me on a witch hunt? Have a little bit of your own purpose?” Marcus said as he picked up his helm and slid it onto his head, covering the long black hair and its peppering of white and gray. Marcus’ hazel eyes radiated intensity on both sides of the steel nosepiece. The simple gesture somehow changed his presence from calm and reassuring leader to terrifying knight of judgment and wrath.
Somehow, this change in their lord and leader galvanized the men, and they rose to his unspoken challenge. “Sir, I would like nothing more.”
Marcus grinned. “Permission granted, Private. And both of you beware. If Peiron is in fact in league with the Empire he has nothing to lose. He will fight to the death. Death, in fact, is a completely acceptable course of action for him.”
“So what do we do if we find him?”
“We question him, and we kill him,” Marcus said as he waved goodbye to Howard and started towards the exit of the tavern. “I’ve no interest in incarcerating him, or testifying at a trial.”
Hester confusion rattled him. “Aren’t we just giving him what he wants then?”
“Well in death he needs a body to be brought back to life by the Queen’s necromancers. So if we find him, and we kill him, we burn him. Even the Queen’s servants can’t turn his ashes into the undead. We should find an apostle before we leave.”
The trio left the tavern, and Marcus unsheathed his blade. It wouldn’t go back into its resting place until he had answers.
General Dalibor Hubik stood on the beaten plains in his army’s camp as dawn approached. Like his rival Marcus he too wore his full field plate, and held his own purple helm under his left arm. A contingent of warriors dressed alike in gleaming purple armor surrounded him. Some were alive, some were undead. In the Empire the line between life and death blurred, and held no importance.
The tall, gray haired warrior held a smug look on his face as his sorcerer approached. The purple hooded Yefim Gneery trailed his own crowd of servants, but these were all dead. All dominated by the will of the death mage. “You are pleased then?” Gneery said as he took a place beside the general.
The Echoes of Sin (The Kinless Trilogy Book 3) Page 22
