Swords of Steel Omnibus

by Howie K Bentley et al.

  Tharat’s eyes shifted nervously, and his tongue lashed out and licked around his mouth. “You know that if you take her while you are changed to the Wolf, she will be like the others? Her body torn and mangled—her…”

  Klak’s glare penetrated into the deep recesses of Tharat’s brain—those pre-human levels that control the survival mechanism. There was a long pause as the Wolf’s eyes burned through Tharat.

  Uncomfortable, Tharat changed the direction of the conversation. “Be careful, Wolf. I have seen visions of a battle between a wolf and a great demon that grows out of a man—a demon of such a magnitude as I have never seen before. This man who spawns the demon is…”

  Klak growled, “Here is the rest of your payment, wizard!” The Wolf threw the sack of gold coins to the ground at Tharat’s feet and wrenched the stoppered vial containing the powder from the wizard’s hand, nearly knocking the little man down.

  * * *

  As Klak rode back to the nobleman’s home that he had taken as a temporary residence—a part of the spoils of his growing band of mercenaries’ war on Horan—he stopped to look out over some ancient ruins. He felt a chill go up his spine as he recalled old legends of a cruel wizard’s imprisonment and torture of an elephant-headed god from beyond the stars. The particular wasteland that Klak looked upon was supposedly the site where a great warrior had destroyed the wizard and, in turn, crumbled his weird spiraling tower to dust. This was said to have been a part of Aroon-Joon when it was called Zamora—in times long past. Klak spat and mumbled to himself, “Legends… it probably never happened.” He rode on, but Klak was uneasy all the way back to Horan.

  * * *

  Argantyr and the rest of Klak’s men sat around the table at their wine cups and foaming jacks of ale. They were in the dining room of the manor that the Wolf and his men had appropriated from the now deceased Count Dagnus, whose decapitated head rested on a spear in front of the house. Arju-Lao carried a cup filled with wine to Argantyr. As she passed Klak, the Wolf told her, “Make sure that Argantyr drinks it!”

  A mirthless grin spread across her face as she said, “Assuredly, sire. He has already imbibed one cup containing the powder. This will be the second.” Her almond eyes gleamed an inhumane light. The Wolf reflected her gaze with his own leer and smiled at her assiduousness.

  Arganytr didn’t seem to notice Arju-Lao or anyone else in the room as the exotic beauty set the fresh cup of wine on the table before him. He was deep in thought—spiraling back down a path that he had forgotten in his youth—admiring a butterfly as it landed on a flower—the sweet smell of spring and a joyous occasion around a campfire with his family—a gift of fruit from a little girl who was his dear friend in times fell to dust—just like her frail body had returned to the dust when the sickness had taken her. A tear rolled down Argantyr’s cheek—what was wrong with him? He had forgotten how to cry long ago—even before he had killed his first man.

  Arju-Lao told Argantyr, “Drink, my love! Celebrate victory once again! You have earned it. You all have earned it.”

  Arju-Lao’s words brought Argantyr out of his trance, but he still felt much remorse for what he had lost—and what he had become.

  Argantyr picked up the cup and stared into it. The Wolf was watching him. At first Klak thought that Argantyr knew the wine was tainted and this made him uneasy. Argantyr was like a lion in battle. Klak had watched the man surrounded by foes, cutting them down like blades of grass before they could even close in on him. Argantyr had saved the Wolf’s life twice. Once when Klak’s attacker was poised to run him through from behind with cold steel—Argantyr had stopped the man in his tracks with an axe thrown to the head. Another time, the Wolf had been wounded and fallen to his knees. A Gornian chieftain gripped Klak by the hair and had his knife on his throat—when Argantyr had rushed in at the last moment and toppled the chieftain’s head from his body with a single stroke of his sword. Argantyr was a formidable foe, and Klak was uncertain about his ability to best Argantyr unless Klak was changed into the werewolf—even then Argantyr might not be so easily vanquished. This way was better; it would show to all that even Argantyr would cower before the mighty Wolf.

  Klak breathed a sigh of relief when Argantyr tilted the wine cup to his mouth and started on his second glass of ensorcelled wine. The Wolf had had only a few drinks of wine, but was feigning drunkenness. Arju-Lao moved over close to Klak. Argantyr had nearly finished his second glass of wine when Klak wrenched his sword from its scabbard and bellowed out into the feasting hall for all to hear, “Any man who can best me at arms can have all of the plunder taken from the raid on Horan yesterday!”

  The Wolf looked around the room at the men as they cast their glances down at their cups or upon other parts of the room. A few of them shot quick glances at Argantyr, but he seemed to be deep in his own thoughts and to not hear Klak’s challenge.

  Klak shouted out louder a second time “I said, ‘Anyone who can best me at arms can take the spoils from yesterday!’” He reached over and roughly pulled Arju-Lao to him, adding, “I will even give you this whore to play with!” making sure that Argantyr saw him squeeze Arju-Lao’s left breast hard with his right hand. Argantyr snapped out of his trance. His limbs would barely move. His hand went to his sword hilt, but he fell upon the floor. Argantyr tried to rise and felt his stomach churning. He vomited the wine up on the floor. The Wolf roared with laughter. He went over to where Argantyr was lying prostrate on the floor, trying in vain to lift himself up. Klak squatted beside Argantyr. He drew Argantyr’s own sword from his scabbard and put it in his hand saying, “Take your sword and fight, champion, or your woman will be servicing your fellow dogs tonight… and me. It’s not as if I haven’t had her already.”

  Arju-Lao burst into bell-like, high-pitched laughter. “Argantyr knows how to take a man’s life on the battlefield, but he has no idea about how to take a woman in bed.” A few of Klak’s men laughed at her jest, but most remained silent.

  Arju-Lao told Argantyr, “Why don’t you take your sword and face Klak? I always suspected you were really a coward. A woman wants to be taken by a real man, not made love to by a timid sheep.” Arju-Lao pulled Argantyr’s head up by his hair and spit in his face.

  The Wolf nodded his head in Argantyr’s direction as the fallen warrior was still struggling to rise from the floor. Most of Klak’s men went over and started beating Argantyr. The few who straggled behind just watched. Most of these men were hardened at birth. Some of them were from tribes who cast newborn babies into embankments of snow to prove that they were worthy of life. Some of them were orphans who had grown up in the streets of cities such as Tulanarth and Taktreer, doing whatever they had to do to survive. If they hadn’t been shaped into what they now were as children, life would have made them murderers and cut-throats somewhere along the way.

  When the men were finally finished beating Argantyr, Wintaun drew his sword and looked to Klak for his approval. Wintaun had always resented Argantyr for his martial prowess and his luck with the women. The Wolf’s face split into a horrible grin as he shook his head and said, “No. Dump him in the ruins on the outskirts of Aroon-Joon where they say it is haunted; in the place they called the city of Zamora in ages long past. He can bleed to death there, or let the devils that haunt the place have him. You dogs worked him over pretty well. Not even Argantyr could survive such a beating. Likely, he’ll die before you get him there. Either way, we won’t be seeing the cur again.”

  The men picked Argantyr up and made for the door of the manor. Arju-Lao walked over and leaned back against Klak. The Wolf put his arms around her as they grinned like hyenas at the broken and bloody body of the dying man leaving their sight.

  Chapter III

  Rescued by the Witch

  Argantyr opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. He heard a woman speaking. “You are fortunate to be alive. If I hadn’t found you when I did, you would most certainly be dead.” Her voice was deep and resonating, but feminine, nonetheless.
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  Argantyr choked out, “Where am I? I need to…”

  The woman’s voice fell to a soft whisper like a mother comforting her child, “Shhh… What you need is rest… Then you can tell me.”

  The woman laid her cool hand on Argantyr’s forehead; when she did so, his sight receded into darkness. As he fell off into slumber he mumbled, “I need to kill the Wolf… need to kill…”

  The woman said, “All in good time. You need rest now.”

  * * *

  Dreams assailed Argantyr like an invading army. He crouched within himself like a child hiding in the cool forest while murderers and rapists rained terror down on peaceful villagers with fire and sword. As he receded into himself like a fetus in its mother’s womb, he felt the spring breeze touch his face and savored the aroma of the honeysuckles and lilacs in bloom. The earth was a living, breathing entity again; and Argantyr was glad to be a part of this wonderful sentient being. He saw his parents waving to him as he made his way to the forest. He heard his mother call to him, “Be back by supper!” His father was gathering branches for the bonfire that they would have that night.

  ​The severed tree limb in the forest became his sword as he pretended to slay Ice Giants and imagined the tales that would be told of his valor in Cruach’s feasting hall that evening. Of a sudden, there came the rumble of horses’ hooves. Argantyr heard the curses of men without gods or souls as they crashed through the forest close by. Argantyr ducked behind some trees into the fort that he had recently constructed of branches with newly grown green leaves.

  ​He heard the shouting of the village men as the steel entered their guts and cut their throats and the cries of the women as they were defiled. He thought that he heard little Bessa screaming. Argantyr shook with rage and fear and tried to withdraw further into himself as he lay there hidden in the trees. A man came riding back his way—one of the marauders. He looked directly into the tree limbs where Argantyr was hiding. The man knew he was there. Argantyr looked out through a space between the limbs. When he did, he saw the man glaring directly into his eyes. The man was Argantyr—Argantyr himself. Argantyr, killer of men.

  Argantyr the man woke up screaming. His fever had broken. He managed to stumble out of the bed and reach for a sword that had been lying by his bedside. When he picked up the sword, a shock ran through his body that knocked him sprawling onto the floor. He tried to raise himself up but could not. The mysterious woman was kneeling by his side, helping him back into the bed.

  She told him, “You are getting stronger; soon, you will be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” he inquired.

  “Ready for what you have to do. Vengeance burns in your heart. I can see it surrounding you.”

  “The Wolf—I have to kill him.”

  “I know,” she said as her piercing green eyes bored into him. He noticed what a beautiful woman had been caring for him. She was petite and had long wavy red hair. Her body was taut and muscular, and her low-cut dress revealed the top of her ample bosom. In spite of her athletic build, she was beautifully feminine in every respect.

  As she looked into his very being, she spoke as if she were far away. “My heart once burned for vengeance too. And I got it. The men who had destroyed my life, destroyed my sister and my mother. The men all died. I had the satisfaction of seeing them suffer. I helped them suffer, and suffer they did—endlessly. My mother fought them for a while. She raised a great army. But their army was greater. She made them pay in blood, but finally they defeated her; and she took her own life.”

  The woman spoke as though she were entranced. “Then I called Him—the Rune—Thorn, the Witch Maker. The one before whom no man or army can stand.”

  Her face snarled into a rictus, and her green eyes blazed—a hellish emerald fire. Her sultry voice rumbled, and she growled like a demonic priestess singing praises to a patron devil. “Not even the mightiest of gods can vanquish him, for he feeds on their very essence!”

  “What is your name, woman?”

  “My name is Bunduica,” she said, seeming to become aware of her surroundings again. “But all of that of which I told you happened in ages long past—or yet to come. I have travelled through time so much that I am not sure when it was.”

  “I am Argantyr. I was once a killer of men, but now I cannot bring myself to pick up a sword.”

  “I know this, but you will be able to kill again. You have lain in a fever dream for weeks now. We had best lay plans for you to exact your revenge and destroy those who tried to kill you.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “We… I have been watching you for a while, Argantyr.”

  “Watching me?” Argantyr asked, experiencing a feeling of unease at the woman’s answer.

  Bunduica turned and picked up a round object that immediately blazed into a glowing green luminescence. She held the glowing orb before Argantyr and said, “Look! Even now you can see your former comrades and their werewolf chieftain.”

  Scenes quickly played out before Argantyr’s eyes—scenes of wholesale rapine and murder. Klak and his men took another city—then another—then another. More women and children screamed. More men died. Klak’s army rapidly grew and swelled with each city that fell along the way. The marauders sat at the table of a recently appropriated villa and Arju-Lao bounced on Klak’s lap as he and his men laughed in drunken revelry.

  Bunduica made a gesture and moved her hand over the top of the orb and the light was extinguished.

  Argantyr still stared at the scrying orb in amazement. “Arju-Lao yet lives?” he wondered aloud, doubting what he had seen.

  “Aye. That is one more reason why we need to quickly set things into motion. The Talisman that I need is still in the werewolf’s possession.” Bunduica poured some liquid into a cup. “Drink this while I explain to you all that is involved.”

  Chapter IV

  Thorn’s Armor

  Argantyr and Bunduica walked along outside. It was night time, but the skies were a dim red instead of black; Argantyr could still see quite well. Trees whispered to one another and walked around on their roots—the roots lashing themselves into the ground when a tree stopped in a new position. Bunduica told him, “Do not fear the Irminsuls. They will not harm you.” This was a strange world that Argantyr had found himself in since he had awoken from the fever dream. He wondered aloud if he were dead, but Bunduica assured him, “No, you are not—and soon you shall be more alive than you have ever before been.”

  Bunduica led Argantyr deep into the hilly forest, to the mouth of a cave. As they stood before the yawning cavern, Bunduica told him, “Inside you will find it—the suit of armor that will make you invincible. The mightiest army will not be able to defeat you.”

  “But how am I to fight when I can’t even pick up a sword?” asked Argantyr.

  “You shall be as a monstrous war machine to anyone who stands in your path—man, god, or demon. I shall go in with you and show you, but you must don the armor and experience Thorn’s power—alone. Your being must merge with the essence of the Rune to regain what you have lost—and then some. You shall see through the eyes of Thorn. As he passes some of his strength to you, so you will pass some of your strength as a living being to him.”

  “‘Thorn?’ You have told me of Thorn before, but I still don’t fully understand what or who it is that you speak of.”

  “I told you that long ago I delved deeply into the blackest of arts to gain the knowledge to destroy those who murdered my family and outraged me.” Argantyr nodded. “The old druid Balor was my mentor,” Bunduica continued. “He was like a grandfather to me. He presented me with the Book of Dead Runes, the most powerful book of magick on the earth or any other world that I know. After much study and connecting with the runes in the book, I summoned the Thorn rune. I did not know what to expect. But a mighty warrior king came. He was larger than a man and had hair the color of freshly spilled blood, while his skin was white as snow. He is what some would call a demon. Call h
im what you will, but he is the physical manifestation of the Thorn rune, as well as he is the Rune itself. Thorn told me that he would destroy the Romans, and he did. But we tarry too long; come inside and see for yourself!”

  Bunduica entered the mouth of the cave, and Argantyr followed. As they entered the cave, Bunduica took a torch from a bracket in the wall. She held her hand over the top of the stick, and it burst into flames. Argantyr could see written characters on the walls. Argantyr nodded his head. They looked similar to those used by the priests of the Aesir and Vanir—warlike races that dwelled across the sea and to the far north of his Tuathic people.

  The cave was dank and smelled of earth, even though Argantyr wasn’t sure that they had entered the earth that he knew. They went through a large chamber that contained doors to several smaller chambers. Bunduica pointed to the doorway of the far left antechamber, and they passed through it. There were life-sized figures displayed there. As Argantyr looked at a serpent-man, Bunduica explained that these were trophies of Thorn’s many hunts and battles. They walked on. Argantyr marveled at the regal skeleton of a large man sitting on a throne clutching a mighty broadsword. Bunduica told Argantyr, “He was a great Atlantean king, whom Thorn had admired. Thorn keeps his skeleton and Hel-forged sword here to honor the warrior king.”

  Argantyr gazed upon the jewel-encrusted crown of the great king. Those jewels would buy a kingdom in this age.

  They walked on past a silver-winged minotaur and stopped in front of a suit of armor. Argantyr estimated that the armor was nearly seven feet in height. Argantyr wondered how he was to move in armor of such girth and stature as his eyes took in the details of the eldritch suit. The whole suit was of a shiny black color and looked as if it were made of polished stone. There were runes all over the armor—they appeared as though they were etched into the suit. The helmet would cover the skull and had eye holes and a cheek guard. The suit of armor seemed to stand there of its own volition—sentient. The helmet rested on top with nothing visible to support it other than a black void.