Warlord Slayer Read online

  Thrax laughed heartily. “Don’t mind Karash here, but nothing gets her pussy wet like a cold-eyed killer. She only goes for the best head-takers. I reckon you tick all those boxes.”

  Mark downed the rest of his mead and threw down his tankard. “No use in wasting time. Let’s go.” he grunted to the woman, who grinned.

  “Not so fast there, Alarik…I’d like to talk some more.” said Thrax, his tone changing slightly. Gone was the overly-congenial patter. His boys must have noticed, too, because a couple of them were on their feet, slowly pacing around the fire until they were looming behind Mark, arms folded.

  Mark turned to look at each man in turn, keen to show he wasn’t intimidated. “Are you sure about this, boy?” he growled to Thrax.

  Thrax chuckled and shook his head, and as he spoke his tone became threatening. “Alarik, Alarik, Alarik…I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I didn’t invite you over here for your company. No. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Karash rolled her eyes. “Fuck sake, Thrax, can’t this wait until I’ve fucked him?”

  “Don’t worry, Karash, nothing’s going to happen to Alarik…As long as he’s wise about it.” Thrax grinned, meeting Mark’s fearsome glare. “You see Alarik, the girl was ours. We caught her. We get to decide what to do with her. I gave her to some mates as a gift, something to lift their spirits. And then what do I see, but some stranger comes up and beats three of them to a pulp, and then drags her off. Now, part of me says fair play. We’re raiders, aren’t we Alarik? We take what we want when we want it. But part of me also says…Fuck you. She was ours. She wasn’t yours to take. And I’m not too pleased about you burning the body either. Now our hounds will have to go hungry.”

  Mark’s knew what he had to do. Barbarians are pack animals. They respect only the strongest. He would not back down. “Get to the point, boy.”

  “Call me boy again…” hissed Thrax, before stopping himself and plastering the faux-congenial smile across his face once more. He got up and strolled over to where Mark was sitting. “The point is, Alarik, warm yourself by our fire. Have another tankard of our delicious mead. Enjoy Thrax’s unique hospitality. But when all that’s done, I want you gone. Get the fuck out of Gothen-Pit, and never come back. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

  “And if I refuse?” growled Mark, standing up and squaring up to him. The Helveti boys behind him took a step closer. The other Helveti put down their tankards and ushered the women off their laps. Karash grinned from ear to ear. They all sensed that things were about to get tasty.

  “If you refuse…I’ll cut your balls off!” hissed Thrax.

  Mark smiled a violent, bloody grin.

  He grabbed Thrax by the back of the head and smashed his forehead into his nose. Karash gasped in sexual excitement as Thrax’s head shot back with blood pouring from his face.

  The others were on him in a shot as Thrax staggered back holding his nose. The men behind him grabbed Mark by the arms, and the rest ran at him. They all piled into him with punches to the gut and kicks to the shins.

  Mark roared as he struggled against the scrum of unwashed savages, throwing one of them down into the dirt. His fist swung out, breaking a man’s jaw and sending him sprawling. He kicked a third in the stomach, sending him staggering back. He slipped in the mud and landed in the fire. He shrieked as fire enveloped him, setting his fur cloak ablaze, and he threw himself onto the ground and started rolling around in the damp mud.

  The women screamed as they saw the man thrashing about ablaze, and the blokes backed off looking shell-hocked. Thrax snarled, baring blood-stained teeth, and pulled a bone shiv from his belt. The others likewise reached for weapons – flints, iron barbs, wooden clubs.

  Karash strode right into the middle of them all, standing between Mark and the furious Helveti. “I think we’ve all seen enough, haven’t we? I’m sure nobody else wants to be burned alive like Garros.” she said of the burning man who now lay unconscious, smoke rising from his charred clothes and flesh, “And I’m sure even Alarik wouldn’t want to take on a dozen armed men.”

  “Hmm. My thoughts exactly.” growled Mark, glaring at the seething tribesmen.

  “Come on. Let’s go.” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him away from the campfire. They were followed by the scowls of the Helveti. Thrax, humiliated, cursed as he threw his shiv down into the mud. But all the same, none had the stones to pursue him.

  Karash led Mark towards the revelry around the bonfires, where massive crowds of savages danced, drank and fucked. As she led him deeper into the belly of the beast chaos and confusion enveloped him. He was jostled by revellers. They convulsed madly under the influence of strange herbs. Tribal drums rang out and tribesmen screamed and wailed. Many wore strange outfits made from animal skins, with masks made from skulls. They writher around, groped each other, fucked on the muddy ground. Mist and smoke covered the whole debauched scene.

  Eventually Karash stopped right in the middle of the revelry. She turned to Mark and kissed him on the lips surprisingly softly. Then she pressed herself up against him and put his hands on her thighs.

  “You have some guts taking on all those men.” she said, putting her arms around his neck and whispering in his ear.

  “They’re just boys. I’ve faced wore odds.”

  “Have you fought in many battles, Alarik?”

  “Hmm. Many.”

  She grinned as she whispered her next question. “How many men have you killed?”

  “I don’t keep count.”

  She laughed. “So you’ve lost count? Wow. It must be a lot then. I’ve killed five men. Warriors, I mean. I don’t count the peasants. I remember each and every one of them. The first was the best by far. I split his neck open like this.” she said, running a finger along his neck. “Blood spurted out, like venom from an asp’s mouth. It was beautiful.”

  She kissed him again, but he seemed distracted, his cold eye flitting about the maddening scene.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him, stroking his face.

  “Nothing.” he grunted.

  “You seem uncomfortable. They don’t have revels in your tribe?”

  “Not like this. This is…Different. It’s chaos.”

  She grinned broadly. “The world is chaos. It’s full of fire and terror. All you can do is give in to it. Allow yourself to be free.”

  “I cannot be free. Not yet.”

  “We are all free, if we allow ourselves to be. Come. Let me show you.”

  Mark had proven he could fight like a barbarian. Now he would have to revel like one. He gave in to Karash, submitted to her. He drank strange spirits and smoked foul herbs. They kissed ferociously amongst the throng. As they held each other, as they embraced, the world began to slip away. Mark lost track of the passing of time as he was enveloped by the chaos and savagery.

  Amidst the blur, there was fire, rising high, crackling. He was thrown this way and that by the revellers. He fell over in the mud, only to be dragged to his feet by the giggling Karash. He felt her body on him, feeling her warmth. He looked into her dark eyes and saw a terrible abyss. The thunder of the drums shook him to the bones. And as he looked to the heavens, the stars shone bright and bulbous.

  For the briefest of moments, he forgot. He forgot his duty. His guilt, his burdens, his shame. He even forgot Hesetti.

  Mark regained some of his senses as he threw Karash down into the mud and mounted her. She cackled and bared her teeth, then kissed him again and again. Perhaps it was the coldness of the air that brought him to his senses, or the pain of her claw-like fingernails tearing against the skin on his back. Maybe it was the relative quiet, for they were some distance from the thrashing of the drums and the whooping of revellers. Or maybe it was the stench of death.

  Mark had the wherewithal to lift his head and check his surroundings, though his vision was blurry from the booze and his head was fuzzy from the toxic fumes. They had managed to stagger away from the t
hronging crowds. They were all alone save for one sloshed bystander who was taking a piss and singing deranged limericks nearby. They were hidden from view by a cart loaded with corpses. The reek of decay was unmistakable.

  “Take me, Alarik!” Karash demanded as her legs gripped his waist.

  Mark said nothing, he just stared into her dark eyes. As he looked into those black pits a familiar sensation flushed through him. Hatred. She was one of them – a murderer. A foul animal. The touch of her skin, where once it had pleased him, now made his skin crawl. His fists clenched on mud as his teeth grinded.

  She sensed something was wrong and stopped kissing him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Mark threw out his hands and grabbed her by the neck. She gasped, eyes wide, as he began to strangle her. She tried to push him off, kicking out with her legs and clawing at his arms. She made a sickening gaging noise as she struggled, her eyes full of mortal terror as she thrashed about with all she had. She reached for something in her belt. As she got hold of an iron peg Mark grasped her hand with his vice-like grip, not letting her draw it. He loomed over her, throttling her with his remaining hand and slamming her head into the ground again and again. Gradually her flailing grew weaker. Her eyes slowly rolled back in her head and at last she went limp.

  Mark breathed heavily as he looked upon her limp body. “That’s for the girl.” he hissed.

  Mark felt a vague panic within him. His hands were shaking. He didn’t know if it was the substances in his bloodstream, or if it was the shock of what he had done. He had killed many barbarians before of course…But not quite like this.

  He staggered to his feet, but he did so too quickly, and immediately lurched back down throwing up bile and pale vomit. He staggered up again, swaying on his feet, trying to regain his senses. Mustering himself at last he hauled Karash’s body onto the corpse-laden cart. Then he staggered off, past the pissed reveller, not quite knowing where he was going.

  Mark awoke like a man risen from the dead. He gasped for breath and his limbs spasmed with sudden life. His winced as the sunlight bit his eye, and he curled into a ball as the aching in his limbs returned to him.

  He found himself lying in a pool of mud right in the middle of the camp. Nobody gave him much mind, except to laugh at him and make quips as they passed. He clutched his head, which throbbed terribly. His brain felt fuzzy, half-awake. His body was numb, save for the aching.

  When at last he mustered the energy to get to his feet he found himself lost and disoriented, and could think of little else to do but to wander around the camp in a stupor.

  Eventually he managed to find his way back to his tent, which was now just a pile of charred beams. It must have been the Helveti. Whether as revenge for giving them a beating at their campfire, or whether they had found Karash’s body, he did not knew. He simply grunted in resignation and walked off, wandering on aimlessly through the camp.

  When at last he was too exhausted to wander further he sat himself down in the mud where he was. As the rain lashed down he was cold and exhausted, and could see no way out. He felt like a prisoner in that wretched camp

  He had tried to become one of them. To submit himself to savagery. But it was all in vain. In the end, he could not let go of his hatred of them. And now, far from winning friends, he had earned nothing but enemies, and he was further than ever from Tiroginus.

  Perhaps it was futile trying to gain an audience with him. Perhaps he’d have to sneak into Gothenmar instead, slip into Tiroginus’ quarters at night and cut his throat. But it was a hopeless task. He had heard tell of Gothenmar’s defences. It was a fortress, full to the brim with Calvii warriors, and Tiroginus was wise and paranoid and never far from his mighty bodyguard Bronmere.

  No, that wouldn’t do. The chances of success were be too slim. He would have to stick it out in that gods-forsaken pit.

  His thoughts turned to Hagar. He had managed to live for years as one of them, but Mark lacked his nous and patience. He could scarcely bear the thought of another day in that terrible place let alone weeks on end.

  He wondered why Hagar had given up spying to become a hunter. Perhaps the stress had got to him. The sense of always being in peril, of constantly being around your hated foes. Or perhaps he had gotten in too deep, and had begun to become one of them, to see himself as a barbarian first and a spy second. Perhaps when the Varuspikts were wiped out, he felt that he had lost his own tribe.

  So that is it, then? Mark lamented. Stay true to myself and to Darloth, and end up on a corpse-cart with a Helveti shiv in my spine? Or submit to the way of the savages, and become that most hateful of things, a barbarian?

  In that moment it all seemed hopeless. In his despair, he considered surrender. Abandoning his duty. Abandoning his redemption. Abandoning the one he loved. These were the thoughts that swirled through his mind as he gave in to his exhaustion and fell into a feverish sleep.

  Mark awoke to the warmth of sun against his skin. His eye shot open, seeing clear blue sky above him. It seemed that the heavens beckoned a new and brighter day. And so it would prove, for opportunity followed the dawn. And this opportunity was heralded by the blast of war horns.

  Word spread throughout the camp that Tiroginus himself had come to receive a delegation personally, right here in Gothen-Pit. The horns heralded the arrival of him and his Calvii. Sure enough, the gates swung open and in came an impressive procession of Calvii chariots. In the front most-chariot, larger and more elaborate than the others, was Tiroginus sat upon a throne. It was pulled by four chestnut ponies. Bronmere was at his side and a charioteer lashed at the reins.

  Mark pushed his way through the crowd that gathered to watch him arrive, and so set his eye upon his target for the first time. As he looked upon the frail warlord, for a moment it felt as if his redemption was near at hand.

  A circle was forming around three men held hostage by Calvii warriors with spears and shields. Tiroginus and his men were riding up to meet these three. The first was an ageing warlord with a black beard and wearing a dark cloak and mail shirt. The next was an elder statesman with long white hair and wearing robes. The last was a dark-eyed druid, by the look of him, with a long beard, a hood over his head, and draped in a raven’s feather cloak. They looked grim yet nervous, like men awaiting their execution.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mark of the man beside him as the Calvii chariots came to a halt, and the soldiers inside jumped off and surrounded the three men.

  “The Vargons have come to surrender to Tiroginus.”

  “Why has Tiroginus himself come?”

  “They are ancient enemies of the Calvii. My guess is he wants to humiliate them in front of the gathered tribes.”

  Two warriors lifted Tiroginus’ throne onto their shoulders and carried him over to the Vargons. They put him down a few paces away. Bronmere followed and stood by his side, as usual, and two flag-bearers flanked him.

  This done, the Calvii lowered their spears towards the Vargons. They took the hint and knelt down on their knees. All were quiet, eager to hear the words of the most powerful warlord in the land.

  “Warlord Zamothrax.” said Tiroginus, with a fake smile and a sinister, genial tone. “How long has it been?”

  “Thirty years, give or take.” he grunted.

  “Thirty two years exactly.” smiled Tiroginus. “Thirty two years ago, you cut off my father’s head, burned Gothenmar to the ground and raped and murdered my mother. And now you come to me asking for help.”

  Zamothrax and his wise men glowered. “I come to seek an alliance.” he said. “Together we are stronger than apart.”

  “That is true.” nodded Tiroginus, sagely. “You cannot fend off the Morrowfow alone, and that is why you need my help. Oh how the tables have turned. While my tribe has risen from the ashes, the ashes which you made, yours has withered and atrophied under your rule.”

  Zamothrax grumbled. “It is so.”

  “Perhaps I can be persuaded to help you…” said T
iroginus, stroking his beard.

  “You want us to beg?” snapped the old man who accompanied Zamothrax. “You want us to swear loyalty to you, in front of all these people? Is this your revenge? To humiliate us?”

  As the incredulous old man spoke, Mark found his eye drawn to the druid. His eyes seemed to be wild, flitting about, scanning the faces of the warriors around him. He was sweating and twitchy. He seemed to be fiddling with something beneath his cloak.

  Tiroginus rose from his throne, and rather than answer the man directly he addressed the crowd. “I have not come here to humiliate you, old man. Merely to send a message. That message is that we must put aside our grudges, our feuds and our blood-oaths if we are to become strong enough to defeat the Morrowfow, slaughter the wall-builders and sack Tirigast. I will ask you to fight side by side with men who have dealt great harm to your people. But I do not ask anything of you that I would not expect of myself.”

  Mark’s eye stayed on the druid, who was looking even more feverish, and looked down at his cloak now and then nervously.

  “I shall fight side by side with this man.” said Tiroginus, gesturing to the glowering Zamothrax. “The very man who slaughtered my family and burned my home to the ground. I shall break bread with this man. I shall share my wine with him. I shall call him my ally, for only with unity shall we have the strength to defeat our true enemy: the wall-builders, who shiver behind their stone walls.”

  Mark saw a glint of something within the druid’s robe.

  Of course. Druids are forbidden to do battle and spill blood. It would have been an insult to search him for weapons.

  Mark jumped out of the crowd and shouted “Crossbow!” at the top of his voice, pointing at the druid.

  Many things happened in a short space of time. Three Calvii warrior crowded around Mark and pointed their spears at him. The druid’s eyes snapped over to Mark, then back to Tiroginus. Tiroginus turned to Mark, bemused. Bronmere was already on the move, barrelling towards the druid.