Warlord Slayer Page 12

  He dropped Vlad’s crossbow and wrenched the axe from the man’s face. Then he began staggering towards the floored Farlen, who was frantically reloading his crossbow. As the maniacal axeman hobbled towards him Farlen was consumed by terror. Wreathed in flames, clad in black and iron, axe drenched in gore, Mark loomed over him as his quivering hands pointed his crossbow towards him. He would not get the chance to fire.

  Beaumont heard Farlen scream as he pelted through the flaming door. He landed on the other side in the snow, and immediately rolled around to extinguish the flames. He gasped as he patted down the flames which had spread to his clothes.

  He looked back at the burning barn but could not see the daemon within through the black smoke. He staggered to his feet, picked up his crossbow and began to make a break for it. Never mind staking him out, he wanted to get away from his quarry as far and as fast as possible.

  He tumbled head over heels as a bolt hit him in the back. He lay there motionless for a while. He was dazed, in terrible pain, burned by the fire and now stung by the cold snow. He strained every muscle to turn himself onto his back and face the burning barn. He saw Mark standing there in front of it holding Farlen’s crossbow and a bloody axe.

  Mark dropped the crossbow. He began to hobble over to him, dragging his wounded leg. “I have some questions for you.” he scowled.

  Beaumont tried to focus, but his vision was blurry. His hands shook as he raised his crossbow. Mark was almost upon him, cold eyes ablaze, gore dripping from his axe. He had to kill him. With this shot. If not, the things Mark would do to him…He’d make him talk…He’d punish him…Cut him open like he did to those warlords…He’d…

  Mark was slightly perplexed as Beaumont turned the crossbow on himself, launching a bolt up through the underside of his jaw and into his brain. He went limp a heartbeat later.

  A shame. He was looking forward to making him talk. But perhaps his corpse would be equally revealing.

  Mark limped up to him, spat on him, and the proceeded to search him. On his belt was a pouch, filled with barbarian jewellery.

  Mark smirked as he sat down in the snow, taking a breather. He could make an educated guess as to where it had come from. “Tiroginus. You sneaky old cunt.”

  Chapter Six: Warlord Tiroginus

  Tiroginus was sat atop a blustering hill with three prominent warlords, surveying his domain. The Lotherian landscape spread out all around them, with mountains to the north, their peaks obscured by thick cloud, and forests to the east lit by shafts of light as the sun pierced through. All around them were the hills, cairns and burial mounds which dotted Calvii-land, with moors and swamps beyond. If you looked closely you could pick out sacred groves and standing stones in the distance, as well as villages and farms. Patrolling Calvii-land were proud columns of Calvii warriors riding chariots, surrounded by the clouds of dust they kicked up with their hooves and wheels.

  The concern of these distinguished men (distinguished for barbarians in any case) was not the beauteous landscape, but a nearby camp which nestled itself in a valley between five tall hills. It was vast and seethed with activity. It contained delegations from dozens of tribes and hundreds of clans.

  Beyond that, sat atop the tallest hill in Calvii-land, was the motte and bailey stronghold of Gothenmar. A tall wooden wall protected the settlement inside, with the Heroes’ Hall standing proudly at its very centre, glittering in the sunlight.

  On to the warlords, then. Warlord Habernach of the Pictoi had a shaved head and a full, ginger beard, his pale skin decorated with blue tattoos. His muscular arms were folded as he sat listening to Tiroginus with an expression of stern doubtfulness. Behind him were his warriors bearing axes and blue-painted shields. One of them carried a banner bearing a bear’s head emblem, which flapped in the strong wind.

  Warlord Faelfar of the Galbandii was an older, fatter gent who wore a checked tunic and trousers, a green cloak and a bronze pot helmet adorned with crow feathers. He had a big blonde walrus moustache and pigtails. He looked a bit ridiculous, but there was wisdom in his blue eyes, and he stroked his moustache thoughtfully. His men wore tunics, trousers and cloaks, and they carried spears, shields and bows. His tribe’s emblem was a white bird in flight, and it flapped proudly on its banner.

  Warlord Grug of the Aelsing was the youngest of the three and also the strongest. He wore armoured boots and a fur-rimmed helmet with chainmail falling from the sides, but his upper body was bare and muscular. He had an expression somewhere between confusion and boredom. His men, nomad horsemen, carried spears and bows and wore cow-hide and furs. Their emblem flew on his banner - a storm of black arrows.

  As the rest sat around on stools, Tiroginus sat upon a modestly sized throne to assert his authority. His contingent of bodyguards was three times the size of everyone else’s. Bronmere stood at his side.

  Further down the hill, the assembled warlords’ chariots waited for them.

  “Impressive isn’t it?” said Tiroginus of the ramshackle camp. “All full of men wishing to bargain with me. Some seek trade. Others protection. Others seek lasting alliances. And it is all on my terms. They come from all corners of Lotheria. Some Darlothian towns have even started trying to bargain with me, declaring themselves independent of their rulers holed up in Tirigast, and paying me tribute to spare them from my raiding parties.”

  Faelfar nodded sagely. “I’ve never seen so many tribes in one camp. How do you stop them from tearing each other apart?”

  “Their weapons are confiscated. That doesn’t stop them from brawling, but a few relatively bloodless brawls are good for morale, I find.”

  Habernach laughed, grimly, and shook his head. “It is impressive, Tiroginus. Very impressive. You could even say it is a show of strength. What am I to do, the warlord of a tribe with fewer than two hundred warriors, when presented with the might of the Calvii?”

  “Say what you have to say, Habernach.” said Tiroginus, though he was not blind to the subtext.

  “Though you may be powerful, Warlord Tiroginus, I will never bow to you, and neither will my people.”

  Tiroginus nodded. “I won’t deny I’m an ambitious man, Habernach, but I would never seek to rule over the Pictoi, or the Galbandii, or the Aelsing for that matter. I am merely a pragmatist. Cooperation can benefit all parties. When the tribes are divided they are weak. When they unite, they are strong.”

  “And you strongest of all.” Habernach pointed out.

  Tiroginus grinned. “Every confederation needs a warchief.”

  “And if that were you, Tiroginus,” said Faelfar, “what would you do? You say you are an ambitious man. What are your ambitions? I must ask, since they will impact us greatly, whether we decide to fight with you, or against you.”

  Tiroginus smiled, and as he outlined his ambitions his eyes twinkled. “It’s simple really. I wish to unite all of my allies and destroy all of my enemies. I wish to defeat the allies of Darloth, the Morrowfow chief amongst them, to crush the raider tribes who don’t see sense and reject my reasonable terms, and finally, to annihilate the wall-builders themselves. I want to lead an army of all tribes to the gates of Tirigast itself. I want their thegns to starve to death in that place, and rot away, leaving nothing of their people but villages and farms to plunder.”

  Grug had been pensive throughout. He slammed his fist onto his thigh and lamented. “Ah! This talk is tiresome to me. I love to slaughter the wall-builders well enough, but all this politics is unseemly for a warlord. We Aelsing have no time for such dishonourable practices. We slay our enemies, plunder their farms, and ride off with their women, and there is no politics or clever-talk about it!”

  “There will be plenty of time for all of those things, Warlord Grug.” said Tiroginus. “I will put your skills as a slaughtered and warmonger to good use. And while you content yourself with the mutton and women of Darloth, I will deal with the politics.”

  “This is all very well in theory, Tiroginus, and you have clearly planned your
moves well.” said Habernach, still looking sceptical. “But things haven’t all been plain sailing. The deaths of Brogan and Aelarix prove that your alliances are fragile things which can be ended with the swing of a man’s axe.”

  Grug laughed heartily. “Aye, but what an axe it is. Oh, for the chance to loose one of my arrows into Mark of Darloth’s pale hide…”

  Tiroginus nodded. “Mark’s interferences have delayed me, true, but they have not dissuaded me. I have sent a warhost to crush Brogan’s hot-blooded son Gargon, and bring the Visgoti back into the fold. I’m sure the Albrantes can be persuaded to re-join the alliance with the promise of gold and plunder whoever their new warlord may be. But as you can see,” he said, gesturing towards the camp, “I do not lack for allies. The Darlothians, in their desperation, sought the help of the Morrowfow, and this is the inevitable consequence. Having allied themselves with such a brutal tribe, with such a brutal warlord, the Darlothians have sent these other tribes running to my door. Plagued by Warlord Maedoc’s raids, they come to me seeking protection, offering tribute, men and fealty. Though our confederation will be one of many tribes, they will all have at least one thing in common: we all hate those black-painted bastards.”

  “Aye.” concurred Habernach and Faelfar.

  “I will slaughter those Morrowfow dogs, and drag Maedoc’s body behind my galloping horse!” roared Grug, with a clenched first.

  “We must be patient, good Grug.” cautioned Tiroginus. “Maedoc is holed up in Fangmar with five hundred bondsmen. We shall have to wait for the right moment to strike. We’ll either have to muster our full strength and attack him directly in his hold, or wait until he strays from his hillfort and attack him out in the open.”

  “That’s easy for you to say with his raiders so far from your door.” lamented Faelfar. “It’s my villages he’s raiding. My men he slaughters, my women and children he drags off to his grotesque War Pit.”

  “Geography dictates that some tribes will have to bear more of the brunt of Maedoc’s raids than others…” said Tiroginus, with a shrug.

  Faelfar scoffed. “That shows what your alliance is worth. Am I to tell my people that the mighty Tiroginus will not shed the blood of his men to protect his allies? That he sits on the shitter holding his dick while Maedoc’s men rape and pillage?”

  Tiroginus smiled broadly. “As a show of good faith, Faelfar, allow me to offer a payment of compensation for your pains at the hands of our mutual enemy.”

  Bronmere came forth and placed a small chest at Faelfar’s feet. With a flutter of excitement he looked inside to see that it was full of finely crafted jewellery, glittering with gold, red and blue.

  “Well I’ve thought it over.” the warlord laughed. “This alliance of yours sounds like a fair proposition!”

  “You know, seeing the twinkle of all that gold reminds me…A couple of years ago a gang of Maedoc’s bushwhackers killed five of my men in an ambush. That’s got to be worth a few coin.” joked Habernach, to laughter from the others.

  Grug grinned broadly. “This will be a mighty horde indeed. And I will be its vanguard! You have my bow, Tiroginus, providing slaughter and pillage is forthcoming!”

  “Aye. I’ll join too.” concluded Habernach, after some thought. “I’ll not let pride deny my people of safety and glory.”

  Tiroginus smiled and bowed his head. A good evening’s work, by all accounts.

  A giant wicker man burned in the middle of Gothen-Pit, as the delegates’ camp was less than affectionately known by its temporary residents, illuminating the dark night. The mighty blaze lit up a massive scrum of revellers which thronged around it, and the camp beyond, a filthy mess of tents and makeshift huts. The din of their whooping and bawling and the banging of tribal drums was tremendous. The ground had been trampled into a sodden field of mud and raw sewage.

  Tribesmen from all corners of Lotheria had come to bargain their terms with Tiroginus. While the largest and most important tribes sent their warlords, with a squadron of bodyguards, wise old men and druids to do their negotiating, the lesser clans would have sent whoever was to hand, or perhaps some dispensable young bucks just to get rid of them for a while.

  There was a tremendous variety amongst them. Some wore pelts, others tunics, others armour. Some wore the bones of animals, or were adorned with torcs and jewellery, or wore cloaks, or wolf and bear pelts. Some had piercings, others war paint, others tattoos.

  The barbarians danced and revelled around the wicker man, drinking foul spirits and smoking strange herbs. A strange-smelling mist hung in the air. Drums were banged, making a grim, daemonic rhythm, as wildmen whooped and chanted. Some were possessed by foul spirits, or more likely potent substances, and they writhed around on the floor speaking in tongues, their eyes rolled back in their heads and foaming at the mouth. Those who stuck to the booze staggered around drunk, some keeling over and throwing up, others pissing wherever they happened to be standing.

  Fighting broke out here and there. The delegates’ weapons had been confiscated by the Calvii to keep bloodshed to a minimum, but when you get thousands of drunken barbarians revelling together there’s always going to be violence.

  In other places the barbarians kissed, gyrated and fucked out there in the mud. Some tribesmen had brought wives and concubines with them, and a fair number of the warriors were women, no less fierce and feral-looking than their male counterparts.

  Just outside of the revelry gangs of barbarians loitered, drinking and glaring at everyone else, trying to size up the other tribesmen, glowering at their rivals and starting fights at the first opportunity. Elsewhere the tribesmen gathered around smaller campfires, drinking, making merry and telling lewd tales.

  Amongst the chaos and debauchery one man stood alone. A grim, feral-looking warrior with three jagged scars running down his face and over one eye, which was covered by a patch. Draped over his shoulders was a bear skin. His chest was bare, revealing a large black bear’s paw tattoo on his left breast, and he wore trousers, fur-rimmed boots and gloves. His hair was long and his black beard was thick. His cold, pale eye scanned those around him as he skulked through the throng with a noticeable limp.

  Mark was ill at ease as he loped deeper into this barbarian hell. He might have looked the part, but his hatred of the savages burned as brightly as ever. This hatred gripped him as he glared disdainfully at those around him. Here he was, right under their noses, deep in the briar heart of Lotheria. If they knew who he was they’d tear him apart. But he didn’t feel fear, only hatred. The savages disgusted him, made his skin crawl. But as he loped deeper into that horrible place Hagar’s words rang in his ears. He would have to put aside his disgust. He was going to have to become one of them, earn their trust.

  It was a terrible place. The noise was unbearable – the thunder of the drums, the whooping of the natives, shouting, cursing, laughing. The smell wasn’t much better, like a cesspool with overtones of sweat, and the whiff of that odd, funky mist lingered in his nostrils. There were people all around him, bumping into him, shoving him, revelling madly. It was everything he knew the barbarians to be – filthy, disgusting, unrestrained.

  Trapped in that savage pit, what else could Mark do but skulk off to find an uninhabited patch of mud to lie down in for the night. It would be no good pitching his tent in this darkness. As he lay there awake in the mud and filth, the thrumming of the revels still ringing in his ears, he knew that he was utterly alone.

  The morning brought a little respite. The revelry had at last died down. Smoke rose from the charred remains of the wicker man. The barbarians had slunk off to their tents and most were now slumbering or nursing hangovers. The air was crisp, and dew clung to the few patches of grass in that sodden cesspool. Mark pitched his tent at first light, then turned to other matters. He would have to get the lay of the land, find out what’s what.

  Those few who stirred chatted with their mates, laughed and cooked on fires. Some were trading bits and pieces using bars of metal
as currency. Mark knew he would have to interact with his new neighbours sooner or later, so he girded himself to approach a grim-faced loner who was cooking some porridge in a brass pan. He had some hares hanging from a wooden rack.

  “Exc…” began Mark, but he thought better of it. ‘Excuse me’ was a most un-barbarian greeting. So instead he grunted curtly to get the man’s attention. The man looked him up and down with suspicious, squinting eyes.

  “I know you?”

  “Not yet.” grunted Mark.

  “What do you want then?” Mark’s gruff drawl was clearly vague enough that the man didn’t pick up Darlothian accent.

  Mark nodded to one of the hares on the rack. The man grunted in acknowledgement. Mark rifled through his money pouch and produced a couple of bronze toques.

  “Fair payment.” said the man, taking them. “Take one.”

  “I could do with some breakfast too.” said Mark, snorting and spitting in a patch of grass nearby.

  “Fine.” said the man, nodding to a log by the fire. Mark perched himself there and the two grim men sat in silence for a while.

  “What’s your name?” asked Mark eventually.

  “Brekir. Yours?”

  “Alarik.”

  “I haven’t seen you around before.” said Brekir as he served up some porridge into bowls and they began tucking in.

  “I arrived last night. Have you been here long?”

  “Three weeks almost.”

  “Three weeks? That’s a long time to spend in this shit-hole.”

  “Aye, and I’ve got a while to go yet I reckon. I’m from a shite little tribe nobody’s heard of. Not worth Tiroginus’ time it seems. It’ll be a few more weeks before he gets to me, if at all.”

  Mark’s brow furrowed. “It can take that long?”

  “Aye. What’s your tribe?”

  “The Brogos.”

  Brekir snorted. “Never heard of ‘em. You’d best settle in, then, because you’re in for a long wait.”