Revenant
By
Fergal F. Nally
Copyright © 2015 by Fergal F. Nally
The moral right of Fergal F. Nally to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act, 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design by Beetiful Book Covers
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Mordstreich
Chapter 2: Stained Violence
Chapter 3: Forcan
Chapter 4: Alternate Reality
Chapter 5: Raven
Chapter 6: Neesa
Chapter 7: The Box
Chapter 8: Mnemosyne
Chapter 9: The Searching
Chapter 10: Sabine’s Wish
Chapter 11: The Island
Chapter 12: Blood Eagle
Chapter 13: Cave Tyrant
Chapter 14: Sally Forth
Chapter 15: The Promise
Chapter 16: The Meeting
Chapter 17: Proximity
Chapter 18: Reckonings
Chapter 19: Forcan’s Revenge
Chapter 20: Pass of the Clouds
Chapter 21: The Storm Gathers
Chapter 22: Halvdan
Chapter 23: Saxavord
Chapter 24: No Quarter
Chapter 25: The Great Hope
Chapter 26: Underworld
Chapter 27: New Beginnings
Chapter 28: Training
Chapter 29: The Ghost Within
Chapter 30: Flight
Chapter 31: First Strike
Chapter 32: Tig
Chapter 33: Crosswind Exile
Chapter 34: Shiel’s Folly
Chapter 35: The Fall of Leerma
Chapter 36: Halvdan’s Walk
Chapter 37: Clovenstone
Chapter 38: Kracken
Chapter 39: EPW
Chapter 40: Duality
Chapter 41: Reglis’s Last Stand
Chapter 42: Reunion
About The Author
Chapter 1: Mordstreich
The crow rammed its beak into the visor slit. An eye stared out from the helmet, just out of reach. A tasty morsel.
The man’s brain registered the sky, then pain, nothing else. He lay on his back, trapped in armour, as the sun went down over distant hills.
His mind was blank. The last thing he remembered was the death blow he had received on the battlefield; the mordstreich. His consciousness faded.
He awoke to pain and the dawn chorus. His pain had changed in character. Gone was the vicious, sharp lance, replaced by a slow, bone sickening ache. The crows were feasting nearby, their frenzied calls filled the air.
His breath misted on the inside of the visor, drops of moisture collected and fell to his beard. He lay cold and still, his consciousness a small flame in his shattered body. Time had abandoned him.
As had memory.
The sun rose and bathed the battlefield in watery light. Not a soul except the carrion eaters stirred.
The stench of death, blood and spent fear filled his nostrils. He remained encased, unmoving in his armour. The day came and went slowly. His breathing grew weaker, his eyes stared. A shadow passed over him, it stopped, looking down. He felt something reach inside, touching his consciousness. This was it then; the beginning of the dark journey. Death would be welcome.
Except. It stopped. It did not take. It gave. He felt the pain subside in his arms and legs. He felt a flutter in his chest and realised it was his heart. It had not ended, instead, it had begun. It was not his time. He felt disappointment within, anti-climax. He would have to return to this place. This world. He felt cheated.
He screamed. The crows scattered, rain fell, darkness returned.
He woke on the morning of the third day. His body felt strangely alive, warm. The pain was gone. He blinked. His breathing steadied. He decided to move.
He tried his right hand then the left. He groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked out through the narrow visor slit. The battlefield stretched out before him. Smoke rose in the distance, scattered flames danced. Men, mostly armoured, lay around him, some torn asunder, others intact. He lay beside a large warhorse. The destrier was encased in armour, an arrow protruded from its eye, a spear from its flank. The eye; a million to one shot.
The man blinked. Nothing. No memory came. He felt suffocated and reached up to take off his helmet. He struggled and with a heave, managed to remove the heavy ironwork. It fell to the mud with a heavy thump. Cool air caressed his skin, he looked down. His helmet plume was a riot of crimson. He focused on his chest plate and saw five iron-shod fists, bearing swords. A tattered cape billowed behind him catching the breeze, he reached back and pulled it forwards. Purple in colour, it too bore the five fists and swords.
It was time to move.
The man, once called Jarl Thomas by his family and the Ravenfist clan, staggered, then found his feet and began to move. The man once called Jarl Thomas, respected and loved by his kin, reviled by his enemies, was no more.
The man rose from the battlefield of Kreshe.
He knew.
He was a Revenant, a Dragur.
Magic had been used by both sides. He had been cheated of an honourable death. He could feel the death curse weigh heavily in his heart.
The Revenant lost count the number of times he slipped on the bones and gore of the battlefield. His mind was numb, immune to the sights of death and destruction. It took him an hour to escape from the killing ground. He came to a stream, sat down and stared at it before lowering his face to the water to drink. He took deep draughts, as if trying to cleanse his soul. His thirst slaked, he took off his armour and tunic and bathed his bruised body. His tangled hair fell about him, his scarred skin glistened in the sunlight.
He heard movement in the trees ahead. His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. He rose slowly and inhaled. A smile broke out across his face, he donned his tunic leaving the armour, it had served its purpose. He strode towards the forest and saw a shadow amongst the trees. He whistled and clicked his finger. The roan mare broke cover approaching him timidly.
“What’s a beauty like you doing here?” he spoke in a low, reassuring voice. “Come here my friend. It’s meant to be. We are the only two left it seems, the fates have conspired to throw us together, to what end I’d love to know. Here we are me and you…” his soft tone calmed the mare, she drew near. He reached out and gently stroked her flank. He was good with horses, he wondered what else he was good for now. There was no breaking the wall of silence that had replaced his memory. There was only here and now.
The mare allowed him to mount. He held her mane and turned her away from the battlefield. They went into the forest. The man looked ahead, dull emptiness in his eyes, weariness in his heart.
They found a road. It took him a day to reach the outskirts of the town. He did not recognise anything. He sold his long sword and the mare in the market and rented a room in the only inn. He found solace in cheap spice wine and tobacco, keeping to his room, only emerging when the wine was finished.
It was late, the tavern had closed. The innkeeper was finishing up
in the back. The Revenant reached behind the bar and took another bottle of spice wine, he would settle up with the landlord in the morning. His money was fast running out. A new plan was needed. His eyes alighted on the fire in the corner, the hearth beckoned. He sat down on a bench and stared at the flames. Shapes and shadows moved in the fire. A snatched glimpse of a face. Then a flash of memory, an image. A gallows; a figure swinging from the gallows. He blinked, it was gone. What did it mean? What did any of it mean?
“You’re not from around here, are you?” a voice cut through his dream.
He turned. A woman in a dripping cape looked at him. Her clothes began to steam in the warmth of the room. He stared at her.
“Neither am I. This’s a world’s end town. Just like the other places…” She hesitated, her eyes flicked to the bottle in his hand. “Mind if I join you? Got drenched out there, rain’s heavy as iron out there.”
He did not flinch when she sat beside him. Her skin and cloak steaming. She pulled hair from her eyes and tied it back with a simple leather cord. She was weather beaten, her eyes tired. She carried the look of the road. She took off her cloak and draped it over the table. It dripped onto the floor. He looked back at the fire.
He could no longer see the ghost of memory within the flames. He stirred and made to rise. She put a hand on his.
“Stay, stay why don’t you? Words are free? I’ll trade some of my words for some of yours. I’ve been on the road for weeks now. Not met a single true person, only the takers… and the others. You look as if you’ve seen world’s end. Hell, you look like world’s end. What’s your story?”
He looked at her hand, then her eyes. Something in her reached him. He nodded and sat down again. She relaxed and took a cup from a nearby table. “Let’s share a drink and shed some sorrow. You look like I feel.”
He took the cork from the bottle and poured her a drink. The spice wine went down smoothly, her shoulders relaxed a little. She looked at the fire and went silent. They stayed that way for some time then she spoke. “I know you, stranger. I know what you are. You’re lost, you’ve nowhere to go. You’ve been forsaken. You were at the battle east of here, Kreshe. No one survived, an unclaimed victory. Still they will gather their forces and will return again; another day of days. This war, ten years of waste… insane easterners.”
She spoke in a low voice, her throat thick with spice wine. Her words held him. The skin of her forearm touched his hand. He did not pull away. Flesh against flesh, not steel against flesh. He allowed himself to be drawn in.
The silence opened out between them again, but it felt like a bridge. He waited, feeling no urge to speak.
She turned and stared at him. “You’re not ready for this, are you? Then why were you chosen?” She took his chin in her hand and turned his head to her. “You are Revenant. I recognise you. You carry sorrow. It is written, a Revenant will rise out of the field of blades in the east. I see the death, the ash in your veins. I’ve been searching for you for a long time, now I’ve found you, in this place, this… nowhere. Fitting… apt.”
She chuckled to herself, stood and took her cloak. “I’ll see you on the road. Another time. You need to focus and find what’s drawing you. You’re here for a purpose. Soon you’ll feel the pull and it’ll start. The journey will begin. We’ll meet when you’re ready, you’re not of this world yet. You still walk between light and dark. Your spirit is yet to be convinced. Very well, all is good, your time will come.”
She pulled her cloak around her and turned, walking across the room, back out the door and into the rain. The man put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. His vision grew hazy.
He awoke the next morning with a vile headache and a dry mouth. At least he was in his room. He rose, dressed and went downstairs. The innkeeper was at work behind the bar.
“Day’s greetings, Ser,” the innkeeper offered. He had learned not to judge those who came from the road, they were often on journeys of pain. This one he could not read, the stranger’s eyes were dead.
“How much do I owe you?” the stranger said.
“Twenty silver’ll see you right.”
The man pulled the coins from his purse and handed them to the innkeeper. He was almost out of funds. “Where’s a man find work around here?” he asked.
As he said the words he knew he was not going to work, he realised he had to return to the battlefield. Something was annoying him. Something just below the surface. He would find coin on the battlefield, it was vast, the looters would not have made it this far east yet, there was still time. Local folk would not steal from the battlefield, it would bring bad luck.
The innkeeper spoke. “There’ll be plenty of work in the fields now. Town’s short of young men ever since Kreshe. Curse the easterners, why can’t they leave us alone? Anyhow, you could try the landholdings down by the river, I’m sure you’ll find work and lodgings there.”
He needed to come up with a name. As he took the road back to the battlefield he ruminated on what he had learned, a sense of purpose grew within. He would call himself Levant, he would revisit Kreshe, try to remember… anything, everything. He walked through the day and most of the night stopping only to drink at streams and tend to his feet.
He arrived at the fields of Kreshe in the early hours. The stench hit him, he retched. He forced himself on and broke through the trees at the southern end of the battlefield. He reached down and took some wild lavender and pushed the flowers up his nose to mask the smell. Death robbed all dignity.
He braced himself and stepped onto the battlefield. At first he walked aimlessly, the crows had done their grisly work. Eyeless sockets stared at him as he walked among the dead. The light grew stronger as the sun rose in the east, it took on a red hue, cold gripped his bones. His breath misted the air. A dull ache returned to his head. His skull felt tight, as if it would explode.
Levant forced himself on, deeper into the field of death. He remembered why he had returned and bent down, taking purses whenever he came across them. He discarded all but gold coin and soon had a small fortune.
He looked up after a while and found himself at the heart of the battlefield. The sun had banished darkness and the colours of the two armies were apparent; the red of one mixed with the blue of the other. He had worn neither colour. He searched the scene with his eyes and knew his journey had to start here.
Levant’s lips began to move, he barely paid attention. His gaze levelled out over the fractured landscape. He realised the words tumbling from his mouth were a prayer. A prayer for rain to smother the stench of death.
Money would not be a problem. He avoided the stares of the dead. So the woman had called him Revenant. A Dragur. He felt numb, not dead. Reincarnation as a Dragur. The woman was clearly deranged. She was right about one thing though; his memory was shattered, a broken mirror. Fragments shimmered enticingly but were empty of meaning.
Levant took a chain mail hauberk, cuisses and greaves, a short sword and buckler. A short bow and arrows completed his haul. He left the battlefield disorientated and thirsty. He made it to the trees, and sat in their shade. The sun had reached its zenith. He must have been wandering the battlefield for hours. Time was meaningless.
He looked around and saw a stream in the distance. He made for it listening to the wind in the treetops. He decided to head for the nearest city. The road would take him there and to a physician to cure his memory. All would be good. He would find his home, his people, his family.
He sat by the stream and ate the cheese and bread he had brought with him from the village.
“He speaks with his fists, that one…” a voice broke the silence. Levant looked around, his hand closing around the sword hilt. He crouched down and waited, searching the trees for the man who had spoken. Nothing. He shivered, not even birdsong. It was all wrong, too much death, his mind was playing tricks, he had to leave. He stood up to gather his weapons, a branch snapped a short distance away to his left. He swung towards the sound, sword
in hand. Nothing.
Then a slight shimmer to his left. Nothing. But yes… movement at the periphery of his vision. There was something, hidden, watching him. Levant stood for a long while, sword drawn, listening. He could feel his heart racing. Nothing stirred in the fastness of the forest. Then a flash of movement, sudden, shocking. A roe deer burst from cover on his right, stopped and stared at him. Seconds passed, the deer broke contact, springing away through the undergrowth.
The moment passed. Levant relaxed and sheathed his sword. He would leave this place, put as much distance between it and himself as he could. He drank his fill from the stream, shouldered his belongings and set off. There would be a full moon, if he walked through the night he could make it back to the village by early afternoon the following day.
He set his mind to the task and found his way back to the road. The day was long and bright, his prayer for rain remained unanswered. Sweat trickled down his back, dust clawed at his throat. He was alive, that was enough. The afternoon passed uneventfully.
Levant entered a meditative state. He was aware of his surroundings but let his mind quieten. He focused on breathing and the stillness flooded in. He watched his feet move as if they belonged to another. Hours came and went.
He looked up. Many miles had passed. The full moon shone large, bright. A chill flickered across his body. He had not met a single person on the road. In the distance a light at the end of the valley caught his eye; outlying village homesteads. He redoubled his pace, the light grew nearer.
Something was wrong. He smelt smoke, the light was fire, a dying fire licking the remaining timbers of a burnt out homestead.
Raiders? But who would do this? Confusion spread across his mind. He slowed his pace and left the road, finding cover in some bushes. An owl hooted above. In the distance a dog’s plaintive howl pierced the air.
He moved silently and made it to the fields surrounding the homestead. He found the first body. The woman was lying face down in the ditch. Her clothes partially torn, her throat cut, bite marks on her arm. Levant stopped and looked around. Nothing stirred. Smoke filled the air.
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