Warlord Slayer Read online

  Mark scowled. “I can’t afford to wait long.”

  “No use complaining to me.” mumbled Brekir.

  “How does it work then? How do you get an audience with Tiroginus?”

  “The Calvii come to the camp each day. They take the names and tribes of the new arrivals, and take delegates up to Gothenmar for an audience of Tiroginus, but he’s only been dealing with the larger tribes for now. The rest of us will have to wait our turn. I announced myself when I arrived three weeks ago, but I haven’t heard from those pompous Calvii pricks since.”

  Mark’s heart sank. He didn’t relish the prospect of spending weeks waiting around in this hellhole. Even if he did there was no guarantee Tiroginus would summon him – his tribe might be too obscure to be worth the great warlord’s time. “Is there any way a man can get the attention of Warlord Tiroginus? Skip the queue?”

  Brekir laughed. “Not unless you can rustle up a few hundred clansmen for his warhost, or a chest full of gold perhaps.”

  “Has anyone tried to head up to Gothenmar uninvited?”

  “Only fools. Word is, the only people allowed in are the Calvii and guests brought in aboard their chariots. Otherwise you’ll get sent back with a clip round the ear if you’re lucky. You’ll get stuck with arrows if not. Tiroginus is a cautious man, and I can’t blame him. After what happened to Brogan and Aelarix, I’d be cautious too.”

  “Mhmm…” mumbled Mark.

  “You hear what happened?”

  “Err…No.” Mark grunted.

  Brekir leaned in close and spoke in a half-whisper. “You hear a lot of rumours in the camp. Most of it bollocks, I’m sure. But I’ve heard this tale from enough people to make me think it might just be true. They say Mark of Darloth is hunting warchiefs. He already got Brogan and Aelarix, and turned them into blood-eagles. Nobody knows why, or why he returned from wherever it is he ran off to, or what became of that Calvulani whore of his. Word is that Tiroginus might be next...But if you ask me, to get past that cunning prick’s defences you’d have to be more god than man.” he scoffed.

  Mark had heard enough. “Hmm. Thanks for the porridge.” he grumbled. He got up and collected his hare, and he and Brekir grunted at each other by way of a goodbye.

  As the days passed Mark tried to keep out of trouble. By day the savages would mill about in their tribes until they were summoned by Calvii warriors, who would arrive fully armed and riding chariots. The delegates would board the chariots and be taken off to Gothenmar to parley with the in-demand Tiroginus. Mark announced his arrival to one of the Calvii orderlies. He grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t seem to be much interested in what this lone wandered had to say. No doubt Tiroginus had bigger fish to fry.

  By night the barbarians would revel, celebrating one of their innumerate festivals which seemed to happen every night of the year for some long-forgotten purpose, usually a good crop or fertility, or something.

  Mark kept to his own devices, taking refuge in his tent whenever the revelry began. The terrible clamour meant he barely slept at night, and during the daytime he only managed fleeting, anxious naps. He tried to think of ways to get to Tiroginus. His cunning had got him this far but he had little knowledge of the ways and customs of the barbarians. Perhaps he was just going to have to wait – but how long would that take, weeks? More likely the bored Calvii henchman won’t have bothered to announce Mark’s arrival to Tiroginus, or will have forgotten about him altogether.

  It was about a week into his stay at Gothen-Pit that the Helveti posse arrived. Their coming was heralded by a commotion amongst the other tribesmen, for they arrived bearing gifts. A mob of wildmen had gathered around them, whooping, hollering, baying for blood. Mark pushed his way through the scrum to see what was going on.

  A gang of barbarians, with their heads half shaved and with tattoos on the bald half, grinned as they tormented a trio of captives. Two of them, men dressed in rags, one middle-aged and the other old and frail, winced and begged for mercy as the savages’ hounds barked at them, held back on leashes by cackling tribesmen. A third captive, a young woman, was in tears as she was held hostage by two more of the brutes.

  “What’s this?” Mark grunted to the tall, bearded man beside him.

  “The Helveti have brought captives from Darloth.” he growled.

  “What are they going to do to them?”

  The bearded man looked perplexed, insulted almost. He turned and scowled at Mark with his thick arms folded. “What the fuck do you think they’re going to do?”

  Mark had to play along. “Hmm. I mean how are they going to do it? If it’s an impaling, I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime. If it’s going to be more interesting then I might just stick around to watch.”

  “Mhrr. Dogs I reckon.” growled the man, turning his attention back to the torture.

  The bearded man was right. The Helveti toyed with their captives for a little while longer, but when they had had their fun they set the dogs on them. The hounds ripped them apart right in front of the screaming woman. Few in that crowd would have understood the begging of the men as they were ripped limb from limb by those hounds, or the woman’s despairing cries as she watched on through tear-red eyes. But Mark understood them just fine. She was forced to watch as her father and grandfather were torn limb from limb by those savage dogs. That was to be only the beginning of her torment, for when the men were nought but blood and bones the savages turned their attention to her.

  Mark had no desire to watch further. He left, pushing his way through the scrum. The sound of the girl’s screams, the barbarians’ mockery and laughter, and the tearing of her dress followed him as he went.

  The girl’s screams played on his mind throughout the day. He tried to shut them out, focus solely on the task in hand and learn all he could about his target Tiroginus. But those screams remained at the back of his mind, and came to the fore as he tossed about in restless sleep that night.

  Then he heard the scream again, crystal clear this time, not half-remembered like in a dream. His eyes shot open.

  Mark emerged from his tent to see a small gang of barbarians sat around a fire nearby. They cheered and hollered as one of their buddies, a tall, heavy-set man, trooped through the camp dragged the girl behind him. She was naked, dragged through the filth and muck by her hair. From his sickening grin Mark knew exactly what the man’s intentions were. Following behind, also looking pleased with himself, was one of the Helveti lads who swigged generously from a tankard.

  Mark knew he shouldn’t get involved. He was here for one purpose and one purpose alone. To kill Warlord Tiroginus. But something compelled him to intervene. Perhaps virtue, a desire to spare this innocent girl from any more suffering. Perhaps disgust for the barbarian perpetrators, and a desire to see them punished. More likely a mixture of both.

  In any case, as he approached their campfire he watched them pushing the naked girl from man to man, laughing, leering, taunting. Her screams and pleas were quieter than they had been before, and her voice was hoarse. Nobody can scream forever. She looked set to collapse at any moment.

  “Come ‘ere darlin’, let me feel those soft Darlothian tits…” leered one man, groping at her cold wet body.

  “Back off Dreng, you’ll wait your turn.” snapped another, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close.

  “Patience, lads. There’s plenty to go around.” cackled the Helveti boy.

  The tall heavy man then grabbed her by the face and stared into her terrified eyes as he growled at her in a demonic tone. “Welcome to hell, wall-builder. I’m going to rip you apart.”

  “Leave some for the rest of us.” cackled another man.

  “Hmm. Me too.” growled Mark.

  The laughter died down as all eyes turned to the newcomer.

  “Who the fuck are you?” spat the heavy man, throwing the girl down into the mud.

  “Alarik.”

  The man squared up to him. He was tall. Even taller than Mark. �
�She’s ours ‘Alarik’. Thrax and his boys got tired of her.” he said, and the Helveti raised his tankard. “So the Helveti lads gave us what was left. There’ll be nothing left for you once we’re done with her. You can watch if you want, but any more than that....”

  Mark’s fist put paid to his taunting. With a punch to the jaw the big man fell limp in the mud.

  “Shit!” shouted one of the others as he and a buddy rushed at Mark. Mark swerved aside of a clumsy, drunken haymaker, and a kick to the gonads floored the first attacker. He caught the second man’s punch, then slammed his boot into his knee, breaking it inwards with a sickening crack.

  The two men writhed around in the mud screaming, one clutching his nethers, the other groping at his smashed leg.

  The rest of the gang had seen enough. They backed away from the girl, leaving her lying in the mud. Thrax whistled and raised his eyebrows before taking another swig. He was impressed.

  The girl lifted her head out of the mud and looked up at Mark with just as much horror as she had her attackers. Mark stormed over to her and grabbed her by the hair. She screamed as he dragged her off followed by the bemused glare of the savages, and Thrax’s intrigued smirk.

  As he dragged her through the mud and filth she tried, feebly, to break free, but Mark’s grip was like iron and there was no escape from her terrifying captor. The girl screamed again as Mark dragged her into his tent. She looked up at him in horror as he lumbered in after her, petrified of this brutal savage who had dragged her off to have his way with her. Tears streamed down her face. Her body, frozen and covered in mud, shivered.

  “Please…” Mark could just about make out from her exhausted whimper. Mark tried to be gentle, reaching out for her. She recoiled at first, but then Mark’s hand slowly took hers. It was freezing cold. Then he lifted his finger to his lips, and she became silent save for her panting breaths.

  Then Mark pulled a blanket over her and lay down, facing away from her, arms folded. He heard her hurried, wheezing breaths as she slowly realised that, for now, she was safe. She lay down, too, and all was silent save for her breathing.

  “Thank you.” she whispered, finally.

  Mark lay there awake that night wrestling with his conscience. The girl was defenceless and would surely die if he cast her out. But he had his orders. He’d come to kill a warlord, not save a peasant girl. She would be a burden…She’d tie him down. She’d already made him some enemies in the camp which might come back to haunt him.

  No…He would have to be rid of her. Nothing would steer him from his path to redemption. He would cast her out at first light. She would have to fend for herself. It was decided.

  But the next morning, as light crept in through the tent, he listened for her shallow breaths and heard nothing. She lay there motionless and cold. She was gone.

  Though it was not his doing, guilt nonetheless welled within him. He had after all decided to cast this girl our, to consign her to death. Perhaps, in the end, it was better this way. Better that her torment was not prolonged.

  But what now? He had seen how the dead were treated in the camp. Those killed in brawls, or by sickness, or who had overdosed on strange substances, were hauled onto carts and taken out of the camp to be burned on giant pyres. Could he consign her to that same fate?

  Mark decided he would bury her, as is tradition in Darloth. He admitted to himself that it was a strange impulse, to offer more care to a girl’s lifeless body than he was prepared to give her when she was living. Strange that he felt compelled to put his quest and his duty on hold for a girl he had only met once, whose name he did not know. But there was some part of her that reminded him of his distant home. He would have to bury her, and his memories of Darloth with her.

  Wrapping her up in a blanket, Mark trooped through the camp sullen-faced. He provoked little suspicion from those around him. Death is commonplace in the wildlands. But nonetheless, as he arrived at the gates of Gothen-Pit, he was stopped by one of the armed Calvii guards who manned it.

  “What’s this?”

  “A girl.” grunted Mark in response.

  “How did she die?”

  “Sickness.” he said, and the Calvii guard instinctively covered his mouth with his cloak. “I do not know what it was. She spat black blood before she passed.”

  “Leave her with us. We’ll burn her with the others.”

  “No, she was…She was dear to me. She was my concubine. I won her from a tribe north of the Hindengaust. Her people are buried, otherwise their spirits wander restless for all eternity.”

  The Calvii sighed. He had his orders, but he didn’t see any reason to begrudge the girl a burial. “Very well. On you go.”

  Mark trudged out of the camp, and mud and filth became dew-cool grass beneath his feet. The air, once infested with rot and decay, became cool and crisp. He walked up one of the hills that surrounded Gothen-Pit until he reached a patch of loose boulders and rocks. He lay her down there and covered her in rocks until she was buried. Then he sat down beside her and looked out over Calvii-land, at the hills and the fields, so beautiful and serene a landscape, save for the hellish Pit at its heart.

  He knew he would have to return, though he longed with all his heart to be rid of that foul place. And it was dawning on him that his only hope of killing Tiroginus was by becoming one of them. He would have to earn the trust of some tribesmen from a larger tribe more worthy of Tiroginus’ attention. Perhaps he could persuade them to bring him along to Gothenmar when they were summoned. Otherwise he faced a long and gruelling wait to come face to face with his prey, with every prospect that he would never be summoned at all.

  So it was decided them. I order to win his redemption he would have to become the very thing he hated most. A barbarian.

  A few tears fell from Mark’s eyes and landed on the rocks covering the girl’s body. Darloth, he told himself, had been buried there with the girl. He was one of them now.

  That night he didn’t hide in his tent as usual, but instead as darkness fell and the bonfires were lit once more, heralding yet more revelry, he headed for the belly of the beast. The fires lit up the darkness, making the night’s sky glow, vast plumes of smoke and sparks rising from them. The barbarians danced around the fires or drank in their camps, and Mark, to earn their trust, to reach Tiroginus, would have to join them.

  “You there, scarface!” called a man. Mark’s eye shot round to see the Helveti gang sat around a campfire drinking. They had the company of some women, easily impressed harlots from other tribes no doubt. Mark recognised the man who had called to him - it was Thrax.

  “Come drink with us!” he called, lifting a tankard of ale with an offputtingly congenial smile.

  “I know you?” growled Mark, pretending not to recognise him.

  Thrax was up in a flash, slapping a hand on his shoulder as if they were old buddies and shoving a tankard of ale into his hand. “Not yet, friend, but you will. Come, we are to be shield-brothers in Tiroginus’ warhost. Let us drink together! We have mead and women aplenty.” He was tipsy and swayed a little on his feet. His breath smelled of booze.

  “Alright.” mumbled Mark. What red-blooded barbarian could turn down such an offer? Perhaps, disgusting as the prospect was, these slavers and rapists would be his ticket to redemption. If he could earn their trust, perhaps he could join them when they were summoned to Gothenmar? The Helveti were a famous tribe. Tiroginus would see them soon enough.

  “That’s the spirit!” beamed Thrax, slapping him on the chest as he led him over to the fire. Mark sat there amongst the murderous curs and took a sip of their mead. Some of the Helveti lads chatted to the women, who draped themselves over them and sat on their laps, but most had their suspicious glares set on Mark. One of the Helveti warriors had her dark eyes fixed upon him. She had long black hair on one side of her head. The other side was shaved, with a swirling raven tattoo. She smiled as she caught Mark’s gaze, revealing bronze fangs which replaced several of her teeth.

&n
bsp; “You wouldn’t believe what I saw this man do last night.” beamed Thrax to his chums. “He took down three men with his bare hands – passed through them as easy as a man passes water. I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s your name, friend?”

  “Alarik.”

  “Which tribe has the honour of counting you amongst their number, Alarik?”

  “The Brogos.”

  “Who the fuck are they?” piped up one of the others, to laughter from the men and titters from the women.

  “Come now, Farrow, let’s be kind to our new friend.” said Thrax, with an outwardly friendly smile. “This isn’t a man to trifle with. He’s a bad motherfucker. Some boys were having a go with the bird we brought back, and he just rocked up and said ‘I’m having her’. Then he takes out these three men in a flash, and drags her off to his tent! Nobody had the balls to stop him.” he said, taking a swig of mead.

  “That’s impressive.” The fanged woman grinned, revealing her terrifying maw, and she looked Mark up and down with predatory eyes. His skin crawled as their eyes met.

  “How did you find her, Alarik? Soft, wasn’t she? Must have been nice to have her all to yourself.” ribbed Thrax.

  Mark played his role. He took a swig of ale and muttered “Good enough. Once she stopped crying. Dumb wench.”

  “I prefer it when they’re crying.” snickered one of the men.

  “Sick fuck.” opined another.

  “I hope you left some for the rest of the boys.” grinned Thrax.

  “’Fraid not. She died overnight. Just gave up and faded away, passed on to the next life. She’s ashes now.” said Mark, trying to sound like he didn’t care.

  Thrax nodded and shrugged. “That happens a lot with Darlthian women. The young ones anyway. They’re not as hardy as Lotherian broads. Can’t take as much punishment.”

  The fanged woman sat down beside Mark and put a hand on his leg. “Are you alone now Alarik? No other women to warm your bed?”