The Wrath of Heroes (A Requiem for Heroes Book 2)

by David Benem

  “More regulars,” Arleigh said. “Or… These might be ours. I think I recognize one from the deserters’ camp.”

  “Keep quiet,” whispered Lannick, trying to focus. “We know the bastards who caused our troubles made camp with Black Jon as well. General Fane is the worst sort of deceiver, and his Scarlet Swords are just as vile.”

  “True enough,” said Cudgen, drawing an arrow and fitting it to his bow.

  They remained still, watching a knot of soldiers pass through the intersection before them. This group, too, draped themselves in rags or heavy cloaks and wore wary expressions. Lannick reckoned they shared their purpose, though he thought it better to remain silent.

  As they vanished from view Arleigh gestured ahead. “Let’s move.”

  “Wait,” said Ogrund in his gravelly voice, grabbing Lannick’s shoulder. “I need a word with you. There is news you must hear, grave news. General Fane may possess an Auruch. Worse, Thaydorne is the so-called Spider King. It is he who leads the Arranese.”

  Lannick glanced to Ogrund, surprised but focused upon his task. “I care not for dead gods or their doings or what trinkets they left behind. I need to kill the general, no matter what.”

  “Dammit,” spat Arleigh. “We need to move while there are few eyes about!”

  Ogrund looked to Lannick. “You must be mindful of the greater forces at work in these things.”

  Lannick glared to the man. “Vengeance, first of all.”

  Ogrund studied him impassively. “Move, then.”

  They set out across the muck-filled intersection. Lannick glanced up and down the wider cross-street as they did, spying a number of blazing fires and countless slumped figures that seemed disabled, diseased, or dead.

  “How far?” Cudgen asked, easing his arrow from his bowstring.

  Arleigh shook his head. “I don’t know. A vacant storehouse at the city’s center, Black Jon said. Near the governor’s mansion. No doubt a fuck of a lot easier to find when it’s not nighttime or wartime.”

  Ogrund strode forward. “I’m familiar with this place. One of my order patrolled Riverweave after learning of General Fane’s affiliations with the Necrists. The mansion is due east, and the storehouse a mere ten blocks south of it.”

  Arleigh looked back with a sneer. “Like I said, you’re more useful than I’d thought. East it is.”

  They walked hurriedly though not overly fast. Lannick so wanted to run, to race to that moment he hoped awaited him, but knew it best to appear more like worried denizens of the city than soldiers charging to war. He shifted his jaw and gripped the handle of his blade.

  Soon. So very soon.

  They followed Ogrund now, the Variden leading them down an avenue lined on one side by a canal and countless colorful structures on the other. This street, at least, hadn’t yet been set ablaze, and they passed taverns, guildhalls and craftsmen’s shops all seemingly abandoned. Lannick reckoned the city—known as a bustling hub for merchants and mingling cultures—would be vibrant even at this late hour but for the war threatening to consume it whole.

  Just then a group of men dashed from an alleyway not more than a dozen yards ahead. Lannick and the others crouched low and readied their weapons. The group—four figures—spotted them and brandished their steel.

  “Careful,” said Lannick as much to himself as his companions. “We’re at war,” he said, voice swelling. “We’d all do best not to kill the wrong folks. Identify yourselves.”

  Three of the men kept their weapons poised before them, hands shaking with what Lannick knew to be nerves. The fourth—a thickly-built sort—lowered his sword and strode forward. “We’re soldiers fighting for Rune, of course,” he said with a gruff voice. “You?”

  Lannick found the voice familiar, and in the flickering dark could make out a square face beneath a bristle of brown hair. “Sergeant Kaldare?”

  The man said nothing and kept still. The soldiers behind him traded whispers and held their blades tight.

  Lannick sheathed his sword, swallowed hard, and took a step toward the man. “I reckon we’re headed the same way, Sergeant. And we both want the same bastard stuck on the points of our swords.”

  The man took another stride forward. “Captain deVeers?” the man—Kaldare—chuckled. “Back from the dead again? Happy to see it.”

  Lannick smirked and clasped the man on the shoulder. “Time to put someone else in the grave.”

  Riverweave grew ever more chaotic as they approached its center. Shouts and the crackle of fires tearing through homes. Desperate folk screaming as they threw water from the canals to douse the flames.

  There came too the sound of steel against steel. It seemed at least some of the Arranese had breached the city. Lannick caught glimpses of flaming arrows streaking through the sky as well as red-cloaked soldiers racing ahead.

  “Those soldiers aren’t ours,” Lannick said. “Those are Scarlet Swords.”

  “Fane’s bastards,” growled Arleigh Lay.

  Riverweave’s narrow streets frustrated his view but Lannick could see the low edge of the night held a glow not far away. It appeared brighter than the cast of the other fires, as though a massive blaze had been set beneath.

  Lannick pointed. “Ogrund, could that be the storehouse?”

  The Variden drew aside him, holding his Coda. “It’s in the direction, though difficult to say if it’s the location.”

  Lannick felt a hollow in his gut. “I fear that’s our army.”

  “Under attack?” asked Cudgen Ashworn. “From Arranese or Fane’s men?”

  Lannick nodded. “Either way, it’s Fane’s doing. He’s either allowed the enemy to assail our men or he’s ordered his own attack. We’d best hurry.”

  They doubled their pace. Their weapons rattled and their armor hissed but they could afford caution no longer.

  The crowd thickened, folk fleeing this way and that. Their pace slowed as they weaved and squeezed through the masses. Huddled people, laden wagons and scrawny livestock all wandered in their way.

  Arleigh pressed ahead, swinging his handless arm through the tide. “Move, for fuck’s sake!”

  Finally, after many frustrated moments, they came to a wide intersection, the narrow street meeting a broad avenue split by a canal. They gathered themselves and looked about.

  “Dead gods!” cursed Sergeant Kaldare, thrusting a finger toward the water.

  Lannick followed Kaldare’s gaze to see a cluster of three wooden skiffs jammed against the supports of a gangway, knocking together upon the canal’s flow. Atop the rafts slumped soldiers riddled with many arrows.

  “Fuck!” barked Arleigh Lay. “Hanner?”

  Hanner Hale’s barrel-chested corpse splayed over smaller bodies beneath it, the dead man pierced by arrows. His mouth rested agape, blood dripping from it to stain his salt-and-pepper beard.

  “Our men…” uttered Kaldare. “Dead gods. Could it be deMond was right? An army broken into so many pieces can’t win?”

  Lannick glanced to him. Kaldare seemed to have said the words without accusation, though they stung Lannick all the same. He squeezed the hilt of his sword. “We’ll win this fight. I swear it.”

  Fires blazed all about and the clamor of combat sang upon the searing air. Lannick swept sweat from his brow with a bandaged hand and charged ahead, leading his companions toward whatever raged beyond.

  A battle? A massacre?

  He cursed himself for getting captured, for being delayed. And most of all for underestimating General Fane. He should have known Fane would learn of their coming, and that he’d have a plan for dealing with them. The general was mad and arrogant and utterly devoid of morality, but he was no fool.

  The road turned and broadened and the crowds thinned. Just there, visible in the fires that lit the night and not more than a dozen yards away, loomed a clutch of red-cloaked soldiers. They pressed swords against a man, the last of what appeared to have been a half-dozen soldiers from the deserter army. They thrust, and th
e man slipped from the blades to rest upon a heap of dead comrades beneath him.

  “Fucking Scarlet Swords!” growled Arleigh, his long dagger held crossways before him.

  The Swordsmen—five in number—spun about and raised blood-stained weapons. “More traitors,” grunted one.

  “More dead traitors,” laughed another.

  Lannick and his companions stood firm, wary. Lannick eased his grip on his sword then tightened it. He drew a steady breath.

  Keep your edges sharp, lad.

  The Scarlet Swords stretched across the road’s width, each big and menacing with eyes hungry for violence.

  Lannick was happy to give it to them. He moved to the fore of his men, hatred swelling in his heart. “The general will die upon our swords, as will all those loyal to him. I am Captain Lannick deVeers, Protector of Ironmoor, and I swear this to be true.”

  The lead Swordsman, a broad-shouldered man with an unruly beard, cracked his neck and swayed his sword. “This rotten turd again? Last I saw him he was at the brig in Ironmoor, whining from the quarterstaff I’d smacked against his head and the boot Keln kicked against his chin. Let’s give this drunk the death he deserves.”

  The Swordsmen charged as one.

  Lannick ripped away the rags covering his cloak and armor with his injured hand—wincing—and held the bundle at his side, preparing to throw. “Do the same,” he hissed. “Throw the tatters as they near.”

  He shifted his weight upon his feet, making ready to move amidst the coming rush of bodies.

  A bowstring hummed behind him and there came the thunk of an arrow slamming into the chest of a Swordsman. The Scarlet Sword farthest to the right clutched his wound, stumbled and fell.

  The remaining Swordsmen closed the distance, snarling and shouting and raising their blades.

  Yards shrank to feet.

  “Now!” Lannick roared, wheeling his arm to cast the rags forward.

  Lannick hurled the robes, the ratty cloth spreading like a fisherman’s net. His men did the same. The rags tangled weapons, providing just enough distraction to take advantage.

  The man before Lannick—the lead Swordsman—cursed as the rags wrapped about his sword. He slowed his stride, sweeping the steel uselessly about.

  Lannick seized his moment. He dodged aside the Swordsman then shoved his blade toward the space just above the man’s hip. The chainmail armor offered resistance but Lannick pressed the sword through, through the tight links to the kidney, the liver, the guts.

  The Scarlet Sword howled. Lannick’s hand shook as the hilt was yanked away from it, the weapon scraping as the Swordsman tumbled to the ground.

  Lannick whipped his head about and spied the sword left by the man Cudgen had dropped. He snatched it then looked to the scuffle behind him.

  The remaining Scarlet Swords battled his men. Arleigh wrestled with one, though he’d twisted his dagger near the Swordsman’s throat and seemed poised to finish him. Kaldare and two of his men struggled with another, a brute with a battle-axe. The third Swordsman withdrew from a dead soldier—the last in Kaldare’s company—and began moving toward Cudgen.

  Where’s Ogrund?

  He shook his head and eyed the Swordsman closest—the big fellow squared against Kaldare and his soldiers. Lannick moved, readying the dead soldier’s weapon.

  Just then the burly Swordsman dodged the sweep of Kaldare’s sword, lunging back as he did. He slammed into Lannick and nearly knocked him to the ground.

  Lannick staggered. He stumbled then tripped over one of the bodies and spilled onto the sloppy street. He cursed then pushed himself upward, eyes trained to the axe-wielding Swordsman again facing Sergeant Kaldare and his soldiers. The Swordsman wheeled his axe backward with a roar and charged.

  Lannick pressed ahead but was too far away. The Swordsman brought his axe round, cleaving it into one of Kaldare’s men, a red-faced recruit by the looks of him. The axe tore through mail, bone and flesh, and the soldier crumbled with an awful wheeze. He slid off the axe head and dropped to Kaldare’s feet with a squelch and splash of muck.

  Lannick gritted his teeth and moved forward. The brute readied his axe and attacked. Kaldare and the young soldier alongside him just managed to dodge the blade’s sweep, retreating behind the corpse of their companion. The Swordsman pursued, swinging the weapon once more.

  “Gah!”

  Lannick looked to see Arleigh drop to the muddy street, a Scarlet Swordsman beneath him. Arleigh’s hand squeezed about the hilt of his dagger, the point of it stuck in the throat of the Scarlet Sword. Arleigh growled and twisted the knife and the Swordsman gurgled.

  “Fucking bastard!” Arleigh screamed in the man’s face. Lannick saw then Arleigh had been wounded again, his bandaged brow soaked anew with blood.

  Lannick turned again to Kaldare and the axe-wielding Swordsman bearing down upon him and the young soldier. They were close, Kaldare waving steel and forcing the Swordsman to retreat a few steps. The man’s crimson cloak whirled just before Lannick.

  There’d been a time, Lannick knew, when he would have considered a knife in the back a dishonorable, cowardly thing. Such notions, though, had since been stripped away by the deepest of losses. Now he cared not at all for the righteousness of his means. He cared only for the righteousness of the ends he meant to achieve.

  Fuck everything else. Fuck Fane and his Scarlet Swords.

  Lannick roared as he slammed his blade into the back of the Swordsman’s neck, the point driving through spine and throat and spraying gore across the street and soldiers beyond. The body slumped to the ground, and Lannick yanked away the sword.

  For a moment he stood, his whole body clenched and hatred coursing though him.

  “Captain!”

  The shout came from Arleigh. Lannick looked to see Arleigh pressing away from the dead Swordsman beneath him to run toward Cudgen.

  Lannick raced ahead, Kaldare quickly coming alongside.

  Cudgen had retreated down the road. He was wounded, limping back and clutching his side. He’d lost his bow and held now a sword with a trembling hand.

  The Scarlet Swordsman loomed before the man. He laughed, shoulders shaking. He struck with what seemed only a slight effort, but Cudgen barely managed to ward away the blow. Closer the Swordsman came, swaying his weapon and his laughter growing loud.

  Lannick and Arleigh rushed onward, Kaldare and his young soldier close behind.

  The Swordsman, a burly lad with a sly look, seemed to sense their approach, turning and pointing his blade with a grin. “You old shits? Who are you to challenge the general during wartime? Death is the punishment for treason, you know, and I’m happy to administer the sentence.” He flipped his sword then caught and readied it once more. “Come.”

  Lannick neared the man, slowing and leveling his blade. “Just as I said, the general dies. The general and all his dogs.”

  The Swordsman sprang forward, slashing his blade. Lannick leaned and lurched and parried. He avoided the brunt of the assault though a strike he deflected dug into his forearm, chewing through chainmail and ripping the flesh.

  The man was strong but Lannick had dealt with strong men before. He moved and parried, feet light, and weathered the storm. Soon the Swordsman’s attack slowed, his sword seeming heavier in his hand.

  Lannick moved in, working his blade about the Swordsman’s head so the man would have to lift his own. The Swordsman seemed tired and the effort appeared to tax him. Lannick pressed on, their blades clashing and clanging.

  Just then a figure flashed between them. Arleigh charged and buried his long dagger in the Swordsman’s back. The two toppled over together, the Scarlet Sword twitching as Arleigh worked the blade near the heart.

  Arleigh grunted. “That’s how we do it,” he said, wiping gore and gristle from his hands and face. “These fucking soldiers always expect to fight the foe in front of them, but never sense the knife in the back until its already there.” He chuckled grimly and stood. “Cudgen, you alrig
ht?”

  Cudgen limped to retrieve his bow. “Bastard broke a couple of my ribs, maybe, and sliced my leg but not too deep. Nothing that’ll keep me from putting an arrow in the heart of our dear general.”

  Lannick’s chest still heaved from effort and his head still hummed from the clash. He staggered to the Swordsman he’d felled earlier and yanked his prized weapon from the soldier’s side. He looked about, realizing he remained troubled by something else. “Where’s Ogrund?”

  Arleigh and Kaldare came to stand aside him, eyes scanning the street. Lannick turned but found no trace of the Variden in the flickering firelight.

  Arleigh spat. “Fucker abandons us just as I start thinking he can help?”

  “I do my part as always, Arleigh,” came Ogrund’s grumble. Soon the stout man emerged from an alleyway, sheathing a blade that glowed a faint green. Black blood stained his cloak.

  Lannick stared to the Variden and swallowed. “Necrists.”

  Ogrund nodded. “The general’s Scarlet Swords aren’t the only threat stalking this city. Three Necrists tracked us, and now all three lie dead in that alley. What is more, the governor’s mansion is near, and I sense the presence of many Necrists within. The general is there, Lannick, and it is not just soldiers who guard him. Soldiers and things far worse.”

  Lannick peered down the street toward the flickering chaos beyond. “What did you say, Arleigh? That soldiers expect the fight in front of them but not the knife in the back?”

  “Something like that,” said Arleigh. “But either way, damned right.”

  Lannick nodded. “Well right now I reckon most soldiers not battling the Arranese are engaging Black Jon’s army. Fane likely sent many of his men—even some of those in his personal guard—to vanquish the ‘traitors’ at his doorstep.”

  Kaldare shuffled beside him, his surviving soldier in tow. “I suppose that’s true, Captain, but what is it you’re suggesting?”

  Lannick tugged in a breath, hoping he was making the right decision, hoping years and years of drink hadn’t dulled those instincts he’d once possessed. “The six of us likely wouldn’t tip the balance in whatever combat is taking place ahead. But now, while it’s happening, the general’s defenses may well be at their weakest. If we could manage our way into the mansion…” His voice trailed away and he gripped his sword.