Warlord Slayer Read online

  Warlord Slayer

  Title Page

  Chapter One: Warlord Brogan

  Chapter Two: Tirigast

  Chapter Three: Warlord Aelarix

  Chapter Four: Hesetti

  Chapter Five: Warlord Tiroginus’ Plan

  Chapter Six: Warlord Tiroginus

  Chapter Seven: The Moot

  Chapter Eight: The War Pit

  Chapter Nine: One Last Chance

  Chapter Ten: Warlord Maedoc

  Warlord Slayer

  Published by Nicholas Everritt at Smashwords

  Copyright 2017 Nicholas Everritt

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of

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  Chapter One: Warlord Brogan

  On a windswept hill somewhere in Darloth, a girl was crying. Her long raven hair was tossed about by the chill bluster. Her dress, pale and ragged, fluttered about her. The pail of water in her red-raw hand tugged at her arm, swaying under its weight, though she knew she couldn’t let go. Tears ran down her cheeks and were carried away by the fierce, howling wind.

  She knew they were coming for her. She could see dark shapes approaching from the corner of her eye. She heard the rumbling of hooves and felt the ground shudder beneath her feel. But she knew should couldn’t look at them. They weren’t close enough yet. So her bloodshot eyes stayed fixed on the stone well in front of her.

  Six barbarian horsemen galloped up the hillside, their feral eyes glaring at the fair maiden. Their snarling grins were as cruel as their intentions. Their panting steeds kicked up dust with their hooves as their wild manes were tossed about by the wind.

  They were a portrait of Lotherian savagery. Bare chested, woad-painted and tattooed. Wolf skin cloaks were draped over their shoulders. Bronze toques wrapped around their arms and necks. They were armed to the teeth with longswords, axes and spears.

  A grim warrior watched on from the farmhouse which sat atop the hill. His cold eyes followed the savage riders as they drew nearer to their prey.

  First, the farmhouse: The Darlothians were wall-builders, and hated for it by their barbarian neighbours. It was a fortress as much as a homestead, two storeys tall and made from solid stone blocks. The windows and door were open, but a heavy oak door and thick wooden shutters were ready to be swung into place. Scattered around the farmhouse were stables, barns, stores and kennels.

  As for the warrior, he was a tall and fearsome man who looked no less barbaric than the riders, though his grim glare was at odds with their feral snarls. He wore dark leather armour with metal plates sewn into it in places, and a wolf skin cloak hung from his shoulders. Two axes were held in his belt. His hair was black and short. A jagged scar ran down his face and over one eye socket, missing the eye itself. His eyes were pale blue, so pale in fact that they were off-putting rather than alluring.

  In the warrior’s hands was a crossbow, which he aimed not at the terrible riders, but instead at the maiden’s back.

  “She’s brave.” he grunted, just loud enough that his captives could hear him.

  A boy and a man dressed in peasant rags cowered behind him. They watched the girl with fearful eyes. The boy was almost a man, with fair skin and curly black hair. The man was old, broad-nosed and haggard, with lank black hair that had patches missing. The old man had his arms around the boy as if to protect him, though the lad was almost as tall as his father.

  “It’s easy to be brave when you’ve got a crossbow aimed at your back.” protested the old man, bitterly.

  “She is safe for now.” said the grim warrior, his voice not deviating from a curt growl. “From this distance, with this wind, I couldn’t hit her if I tried.”

  “She doesn’t know that!” the old man snapped. “My poor girl…” he said, choking up, covering his mouth with a trembling hand.

  From the corner of her eye the girl saw the riders pass a boulder which sat alone on the hillside. She took a deep breath before turning to look at them, just as she had been told to. She let out a gasp as she witnessed their full savagery for the first time. She screamed and dropped the pail, and the water splashed about her feet.

  She ran as fast as she could towards the safety of the farmhouse. She cried panting tears in between each desperate breath. The barbarians howled like wolves, relishing the chase.

  “Hmm. Here she comes.” said the grim warrior. “Do you have another one of these, Gabor?” he said, lifting the crossbow.

  “Yes. Upstairs.” uttered the old man, his terrified eyes locked onto his daughter as the riders gained ground.

  “And you, boy, what is your name?”

  The boy looked at his father, pensively. The old man nodded, and so the boy responded. “Boren.” he said in a thin voice.

  The warrior approached them with long, slow strides until he was looming over his captives. “I will need you to fight.”

  “He’s just a boy!” protested Gabor.

  “He’s old enough. Almost a man now by the look of him. You’ll fight, won’t you Boren? You’ll fight for your sister. Can you use one of these?” he said, patting the crossbow.

  The boy nodded hurriedly.

  “Here.” growled the warrior, shoving the crossbow into the lad’s shivering hands. “Do as I say and your sister will live. Disobey me and her safety cannot be guaranteed. Go upstairs. Take your father with you. Pull up the ladder and lock the hatch. Keep all the windows barred until I say so.”

  “What about Anya? How will she get upstairs?” pleaded Gabor.

  “She won’t. Not yet. That comes later. Now go.”

  The old man glanced despairingly towards his daughter. She was beginning to tire. She was close enough that he could hear her wheezing breaths. She started to scream something, but he couldn’t make out what. The riders were drawing closer, weapons ready in their hands. He didn’t know what posed the greater danger to his beloved daughter: those six riders on the hill, or the grim warrior in his home. He made his call.

  “Come, Boren. Upstairs.”

  They rushed up the ladder to the second storey. Gabor cast a final nervous glance down at the warrior, whose eyes were fixed upon Anya and the approaching riders, before pulling up the ladder and slamming the hatch shut.

  Anya was growing weak, but fear spurred her onward. The cries of the wildmen were defending. The thunder of hooves and the panting of horses pursued her. She saw her father and brother disappear from view. She saw the grim warrior watching her from the doorway with cold eyes. He picked up her father’s spear, which was propped up by the door, and having inspected it he rested it on his shoulder and strolled out of sight.

  The hooves stopped thundering as she neared the door, replaced by frantic whinnies as the riders dismounted.

  “I’ll take the girl.” grinned the headsman, distinguished by his golden torcs and bronze, green-crested helmet.

  “Be ready, Hogath.” said another of them, spear in hand, as they began to pursue on foot. “I counted three more inside.”

  Anya could not understand their barbaric tongue, but their words terrified her nonetheless. She burst through the still-open doorway, panting furiously, red-faced and covered in sweat and tears.

  To her dismay, she found herself alone.

  “No! Father! Where are you?” she screamed.

  The wildmen were upon her. Hogath and two others bundled her to the ground. She fell hard, her head hitting the floor as the wind was knocked out of her lungs. Their brutish hands grabbed her by the arms a
nd ankles. They leered over her baring fierce grins.

  “They’re gone!” said the spear-wielder as he and the other two searched the farmhouse.

  “They’ll have run upstairs to hold out. They’ve sacrificed you, little girl. They’ve left you behind.” leered Hogath.

  Her screaming had stopped now. Fear muted the girl as Hogath’s dagger pressed against her throat. Her eyes were wet with tears, wild with terror.

  “My my, girl, you’re a pretty one. My father would approve.” grinned Hogath, taunting her as he ran a grubby hand through her hair.

  “Hmph.” harrumphed one of the men. “She looked older from a distance.”

  “She’s pretty enough, ain’t she?” snorted Hogath.

  “Aye, pretty enough. Too young for my liking, mind.”

  “What, you don’t want a turn?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just prefer them more…You know…Womanly.”

  One of the other men laughed. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Bors. And I know for a fact you’re not getting any from your wife.”

  The men laughed at the curmudgeonly Bors, who grumbled as he adjusted his cloak. “Like I said, I’ll take my turn when it comes.”

  Bors’ turn came sooner than he would have expected. Gabor’s spear shot up through the floorboards. It impaled him from anus to innards, and was ripped back out again just as fast. Bors let out a muted yelp, spasmed a bit, and fell to the floor in a heap as blood shot out of his backside.

  The others jumped back in shock, reaching for their weapons as they looked upon their slain kinsman. Hogath staggered to his feet, grabbing Anya by the waist and holding her close to him as he pressed his dagger against his hostage’s throat. She panted heavy breaths as she watched Bors’ spasming corpse in horror.

  “There!” bellowed a burly axeman. “There’s a hatch to the cellar!”

  “You stay here, Hogath.” warned a blue-painted swordsman. “Stay out of harm’s way.”

  Hogath wasn’t too proud to take his advice. He watched on as they rushed over to the cellar hatch.

  The axeman hauled open the hatch and readied his bearded axe. Out of the gloom flew the spear, impaling the axeman and sending him tumbling back.

  Pausing only for a moment to witness the death of their brother-in-arms, the other three cried battle cries as they charged down into the gloom.

  Hogath’s heartrate quickened as he heard the bloody kerfuffle unfold beneath his feet. Barbarian war cries turned to the clash of steel, then the thud of axe on skull, then the anguished wail of mutilated men. No more than ten seconds could have passed until all were silent once more, save for one man’s whimpering.

  The blue-painted man sobbed as he crawled back up the cellar stairs, his wolf cloak now spattered with blood. He turned to look at Hogath, pure terror in his eyes, then let out a terrible scream as the beast below grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back down into the gloom.

  There was a wet thud, and then the screaming stopped.

  “No…This can’t be…” Hogath whimpered. “What is…Who is down there?” he asked Anya in dismay, though she looked upon that bloody pit with just as much terror as her captor.

  Then the swordsman’s head was tossed out of the cellar, and landed with a thump next to the impaled axeman’s body, blue woad spattered with red blood.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps followed, and Hogath began panting hurriedly.

  The grim warrior emerged from the pit, face dashed with the blood of his enemies, axes dripping gore. He didn’t grin or gloat. He just stared at Hogan with his cold eyes.

  “Don’t move!” roared Hogath, finding a slither of courage in his terror. “If you move, if you take one fucking step, I’ll kill her!” His blade drew a drop of blood from Anya’s neck. She gasped as the cold metal bit.

  Hogath didn’t expect this Darlothian brute to understand his words, but his actions got the message across just fine. After a few moments the grim warrior dropped his axes. They hit the ground with a clang. He raised his bloodied hands in surrender.

  Hogath grinned, letting out a sigh of relief as he pushed Anya aside and strode towards the warrior. He pulled his sword from its gold-trimmed scabbard.

  “You’ll pay for what you’ve done, wall-builder.” he scowled. “And when I’ve killed you, she will pay even more dearly.” The warrior gave no response. He didn’t move a muscle.

  Hogath let out a guttural war cry as he hefted back his sword. He swung it, but the blade bit air as the grim warrior swerved back and the sword sailed over him. The warrior’s foot flew out, smashing into Hogath’s knee, breaking it inwards. The barbarian let out a terrible wail as he fell onto his collapsed leg. The grim warrior put him out of his misery, for now, with a punch to the temple which sent the helmet flying from his head. Hogath lay unconscious in a heap.

  Anya was cowering in the corner of the room by the time the grim warrior turned his attention to her. He acknowledged her with a cursory nod.

  “So far so good.” was all he could think to say to the poor shivering girl.

  Taking a spear from the floor he bashed the haft into the roof to alert the others. “All done. Open up.”

  As the hatch opened and the ladder came down, Anya let out a cry of relief as she saw her father’s desperate face.

  “Anya!” he cried.

  “Daddy!” she sobbed, and she ran to him, clambering up the stairs and falling into his arms in uncontrollable tears.

  “Boy.” called the warrior, and Boren poked his head out of the hatch. “Open the windows but keep out of sight for now. I want you and your father to shoot at the wildmen. But don’t shoot them until I’ve killed Warlord Brogan. Clear?”

  “How will I know who Warlord Brogan is?” the boy replied.

  “That’s easy.” said the warrior, with a fleeting grin. “He’s got huge fucking horns.”

  “Okay.” panted Boren as his father took the sobbing girl away to find her a hiding place. Once his father was out of earshot he plucked up the courage to address the grim warrior as he hauled the unconscious Hogath onto his shoulder and picked up his helmet.

  “You never said your name.” At first he thought the warrior would maintain his grim silence. But then he glanced back at him, fleetingly, and gave his answer.

  “Mark.”

  With that the warrior set off towards the doorway, and the boy pulled up the ladder and closed the hatch.

  Mark hauled Hogath outside and flomped him down in front of the farmhouse’s sturdy wall. He looked up at the windows and saw Boren open the shutters. The boy gave him a thumbs up once he and his father were ready with their crossbows.

  Satisfied, Mark looked down the hill at a larger party of barbarians camped at the bottom. They were sat around a campfire enjoying some breakfast. Even from this distance their bawling laughter could be heard. Their camp sat within the ruins of another farmhouse. Dead Darlothians lay in piles around it. Their horses and chariots were up tied nearby.

  Mark held up Hogath’s helmet and waited. It didn’t take long for the barbarian lookouts to spot him and for the helmet to be recognised.

  There was a commotion around the campfire. Water was tossed onto it and it hissed out. The barbarians hurriedly gathered their gear. They scuttled out of the camp towards their horses and chariots, which they mounted and set on a path up the hill.

  As they began their frenzied ascent Mark dropped the helmet and set to counting them. There were twenty one. Fifteen of them manned five chariots. The remaining six were on horseback.

  As they passed the boulder Mark could make out their curses and warcries. He could see their wicked spears, their glinting swords and their bronze helms.

  As they passed the well he could make out a man riding in the lead chariot which raced ahead of others. It was Warlord Brogan.

  He was tall and muscular, with a big bushy beard and a bronze helmet bearing big fucking horns. A bear skin cloak hung from his shoulders. In his hand was a spear, pointing at Mark with fury.
At his side was a sword in a golden scabbard. A battle roar erupted from his mighty throat. His driver snapped at the chariot’s reins. A bondsman stood beside him holding a spear aloft, ready to be thrown.

  “My son, he has my son!” Brogan roared to his men, though his sleek chariot was five chariot-lengths ahead of the others by now. The rest of the bawling cavalcade followed with curses in their mouths and weapons in their hands.

  Mark took a dagger from his belt, pulled Hogath up by the hair and slit his throat, his cold eyes trained on Brogan the whole time. Brogan roared in anguished fury as he watched his son being executed before him. Mark let his body drop to the floor.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” bellowed Brogan, spear aimed squarely at the grim warrior.

  Mark took a deep breath, held his gore-red axes in hand, and braced for impact. Once the snorting juggernaut of wood and horseflesh was almost upon him, Warlord Brogan’s hateful battle cry ringing in his ears, he made his move.

  “The next thing I know, she’s put the damn thing up my arse!” roared Brogan, holding aloft a horn of mead. The men fell about themselves laughing.

  “What did you do, Brogan?” asked one of them from across the campfire.

  Brogan put on a faux-sage expression and stroked his beard. “Well Gotherix, I find that in sex as much as in battle, the key to success is to keep a cool head under pressure. So I just kept on fucking, and I didn’t stop fucking until I was good and done. Only then did I pull the damn thing out.”

  Brogan and his Visgoti tribesmen were sat around a roaring fire eating burnt meat and drinking mead from horns. They had built their fire inside the ruins of a farmhouse they had dismantled that very afternoon. Around them, lying in piles, were the bodies of the Darlothian peasants they had carried off and slaughtered that day. Visgoti warriors are burnt on pyres when they pass from one life to the next. There would be no such honour for the wall-builders, who would be left to rot.

  Brogan grinned as his men laughed, taking a big swig of mead. He cast his eye over them, and then onto his son Hogath, who was quietly sharpening his sword with a pumice stone. He didn’t seem to be as regaled by tales of his father’s sexual exploits as the others.