Warlord Slayer Page 17

  “The alliance is dead.” said Faelfar. “Tiroginus was the only one with the brains, patience and manpower to keep things on an even keel. Even if we were all willing to work together, sooner or later fighting will break out, or feuds will erupt, or one tribe will stab another in the back. It will be a fleeting arrangement even if we manage to strike up a deal. And that is a far-fetched prospect in itself – most of them are stubborn pricks, who wouldn’t know a good deal if it bit them on the balls!”

  “I agree, Faelfar.” said Grug, slapping him on the shoulder. “The others are all dumb fools, cowardly wretches who shiver and hide in their hill-forts. A gaggle of oath-breakers and goat-fuckers, and I’ll have no business with any of them.”

  “Indeed, Grug, indeed.” Faelfar and Habernach chuckled to each other as the dumb brute unwittingly proved their point.

  Their deliberations were interrupted by the wailing of horns. Everyone looked up as the sound echoed around the burial mound and tranquil groves. The horns were followed soon after by shouts of “Morrowfow!”

  The three warlords looked around at each other, confused. “Surely Maedoc has not come?” said Faelfar.

  “Well I’ll be damned.” said Habernach as they, and the other mourners, watched with trepidation and disdain as the Morrowfow contingent arrived. They were given a wide berth by the other tribesmen, and regarded with suspicious and hateful glares, but none dared to bar their path.

  The Morrowfow warriors, thought unarmed, were fearsome to behold. They were deadly night raiders who painted their skin tar-black. They wore little armour and often fought naked, though some wore spiked helmets and scraps of armour. No wise old men or village elders had come to join them. There were few enough of them amongst their brutal tribe. For the Morrowfow, if you are not a warrior then you are a slave.

  The Morrowfow were led by Warlord Maedoc himself. He didn’t dress like his warriors, preferring to set himself apart from those beastly throat-slitters. He wore a fine suit of silver scale-mail, with tall black boots and gloves. His skin was very pale and his brow protruded alarmingly, made to look even larger by the fact that he had no eyebrows. He had a long chin and thin lips. His hair started pretty far back on his head, and fell down straight and long, so blonde it was practically white. He had one green eye and one blue, equally cruel. He walked with a certain gregariousness and grace which belied his otherwise thuggish appearance. Currently, he was pulling a faux-glum expression.

  As the Morrowfow came, the bodyguards and followers of Habernach, Faelfar and Grug crowded around their warlords. This was sacred ground, but little is sacred to the brutal Morrowfow.

  “Well, Grug, you’ve boasted about how you’ve always wanted to kill him. Now’s your chance to tell him.” said Habernach, beneath his breath.

  Grug glowered. “A wise tactician never reveals his plans.”

  Maedoc stood over Tiroginus’ body and patted him on the chest. He let out an exaggerated sigh, just loud enough that those nearby could hear him. “Oh, poor Tiroginus…This is not a fitting end for a man of your ambition.” he said, his voice crisp and sharp and somewhat theatrical.

  “Why are you here, Maedoc?” demanded Habernach, not wanting to beat around the bush. “This is sacred ground. You cannot make war here.”

  “I am not here to make war, dear Habernach.” he said sorrowfully. “Merely to pay my respects to a worthy adversary. Do you think he’s up there now, playing chess with the ancestors? The druids have done a fine job with his body. Who would have thought just a few days ago he was blood-eagled by Mark of Darloth?”

  “You don’t give a damn about Tiroginus.” scoffed Faelfar.

  “You judge me too harshly, fair Faelfar. Even a wolf must feel some kinship for the elk which it hunts. It is good to see you both.” he said, bowing. “And you…Your name I forget.” he said to Grug.

  The Aelsing growled. “Grug.”

  Maedoc burst out with a fake, mocking laugh. “Grug? Grug? That’s the sound my shit makes when it plops into the latrine!”

  Grug pulled a snarling face, but he didn’t have the balls to bite back.

  “Get to the point, Maedoc. We all know you haven’t come here to pay your respects.” snapped Habernach.

  Maedoc grinned. “You know me too well, Habernach. And you’re right of course. I’ve come to tell you that your time as warlords of your tribes has come to an end.”

  “What? What is the meaning of this?” snapped Faelfar, as there was consternation amongst the warlords’ followers. The Morrowfow raiders hissed at them and bared their teeth.

  “With Tiroginus gone and his alliance in tatters I am now by far the most powerful warlord in all of Lotheria. I have already sent riders to your households giving them my terms. Your sons, if they have any brains, will swear loyalty to me.”

  “Never! My sons would never betray me!” bellowed Grug.

  “Your breath is revolting, Grog, or whatever your name is. Try chewing some nappersleaf. It has a minty fresh odour.”

  Habernach’s horror was interrupted briefly as he heard something approaching from beyond the sacred groves. The rumbling of wheels. The tramping of hooves. And rising above the sacred elms were the tell-tale clouds of dust.

  “I hear chariots! What is this treachery?”

  “Chariots? I hear no chariots?” said Maedoc, putting a hand to his ear. “Only the singing of the birds in the trees, and the rustling of the leaves, and the words of my ancestors whispering wise counsel.”

  Everyone else heard the neighing of horses, and the tramping of feet, and then war cries. There was panic amongst the moot-comers.

  “Oh yes, now that you mention it, I did order my men to come and slaughter everyone. Silly me. So forgetful!” beamed Maedoc.

  “This is sacred ground!” protested one of Faelfar’s druids. “You cannot spill blood here!”

  “We are Morrowfow, you horse-faced old fool.” said Maedoc, to laughter from his men. “Nothing is sacred to us. Not the ancestors. Not the spirits. We worship no gods. We do not recognise your ridiculous superstitions. There is only war, rape and slaughter, and we excel at all of it.”

  The warriors had come now, spilling through the sacred groves and surrounding the unarmed mourners. They were fully armed with axes and spears but they didn’t attack just yet. They herded everyone together, waved their weapons at them and hissed, dragging off a few stragglers and butchering them just to get the message across.

  Maedoc soaked up the moment for a while, a shark-like grin plastered across his face. Then he gave the order. “Drag them off to the War Pit!” he bellowed. The Morrowfow cheered and began dragging off the moot-comers to their chariots, slaughtering those who resisted.

  There was chaos as the terrified crowd was herded back by the weapons of the Morrowfow, pressed against the stone barrow. Some tried to make a run for it, but they were rounded up and dragged off or cut down there and then. Some of the menfolk tried to fight back, but they were unarmed and were slaughtered where they stood. There was shouting, whooping from the Morrowfow, screams from the women who had come to mourn as they too were dragged off to the chariots. Maedoc watched all of this with that terrible grin still upon his face.

  Faelfar and Habernach had looks of stoic fury upon their faces. They knew their number was up.

  “A curse upon you, Maedoc, and all your Morrowfow dogs.” spat Habernach as he and Faelfar were dragged off with their posses. “But no matter your threats, or the horrors which await me, I shall not disgrace my ancestors by despoiling this sacred ground.”

  Grug had other ideas. He snarled at the men who accosted him. “A fair stance, Habernach, but I shall apologise to the ancestors in hell!”

  He head-butted the nearest man, sending him sprawling with his nose gushing blood. Another man was grabbing him by the arm, so Grug pulled the Morrowfow’s sword from its scabbard and rammed it into his stomach with a phlegmy grunt.

  As Grug fought off half a dozen men, swiping his sword this way and that
with battle-cries erupting from his lungs, Maedoc rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “Someone get me a bow.” he sighed.

  Grug fought on, kicking back one of his attackers and ramming his sword into his chest before moving on to the next one. A bow was at last brought to Maedoc, who notched an arrow and raised it to his eye. It flew straight and true, landing in Grug’s neck. The big man dropped his sword and fell, choking blood. The Morrowfow piled in, sticking him with a dozen spears.

  Maedoc tried to steer clear of the uncouth business of combat, and as a rule he left it to his lowly footsoldiers. He handed the bow back to his man with the look of someone who had just smelled faeces.

  “What shall we do with the warlord’s body?” asked one of the Morrowfow as he peered into Tiroginus’ coffin.

  Maedoc put a finger on his chin and looked up at the heavens as if he were thinking. He made up his mind quickly enough. “Leave Tiroginus to feed the wolves. Then drag the bones of his ancestors out of the barrow and scatter them about. And when that’s done, burn down the groves.”

  “This is a blasphemy!” blustered the old druid. “This is sacred land!”

  “You just don’t get it do you, old man?” cackled Maedoc. “Nothing is sacred. Nothing. Keep this one alive for now, men. I want to take him back to Fangmar. The boys there will be bored, I’d like to give them something to play with. Goodbye, gentlemen.” said Maedoc, with a cruel smile, and with that he went to return to his chariot.

  The frantic, terrified scrum of mourners was pressed up against the barrow as they were dragged away to the chariots one by one. Amongst them, one person was keeping their cool. A hooded druid with a black beard and draped shoulder to toe in a raven’s feather cloak was pushing his way through the ruck, his cold eyes locked on Maedoc.

  One of the Morrowfow saw him and went to grab him.

  No sooner had he done so, the druid’s cloak flew open, and in his hands was a loaded crossbow.

  He moved like a flash, lifting it and pointing it at Maedoc. But just as fast, the Morrowfow cried out, and there was an intake of breath from those around him as they saw the weapon.

  This was just enough warning for one of Maedoc’s bodyguards to turn and see the poised projectile.

  “Warlord, loo…” he shouted, jumping in the way.

  The trigger was squeezed and the bolt flew. It thudded into the man’s eye and pierced his brain, cutting short his ‘k’. As his man fell to the floor Maedoc took a couple of moments to realise what had just happened.

  “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!” he cried out, frantically, stopping his warriors in their tracks as they went to grab the druid. “Bring the assassin to me alive!”

  Sure enough his men grabbed hold of the druid and tore the crossbow from his hands. They dragged him before their warlord and forced him down onto his knees, tearing off his hood and cloak.

  Maedoc laughed, genuinely this time, as he looked upon Mark of Darloth.

  “No, it can’t be! Mark, is that you?”

  Mark looked up at him with savage, hateful eyes. His teeth grinded. His muscles tensed. His fists clenched. Pure hatred swirled within his blood, making his throat squeeze tight and his guts contract.

  “Oh, I’ve missed those eyes. So cold, so bloody. But this is new.” he said, running a finger along Mark’s bear scars. “This too.” he said, putting a hand on his tattooed chest. “My my, Mark, what have you done to yourself?”

  As the Morrowfow realised who he was they started shouting at him, baying for his blood, howling like hyenas. Their eyes were wild. Their teeth were bared. Maedoc raised a hand to quieten them down.

  “What should we do with him, warlord? Should we throw him in the War Pit with the other?” asked one of his men, foaming at the lips

  “No no no…He is a Darlothian. Our wall-builder ‘allies’ will want him.” said Maedoc, to visible disappointment from his men. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t show him a bit of Morrowfow hospitality first, does it?” he grinned. That cheered them up. They whooped and spat curses at him, delighting in telling him what they were going to do to him. Mark didn’t listen. He just stared, furiously, at Maedoc.

  “The wall-builders will pay good money for him.” continued Maedoc, stroking his chin. “Whether to take him in and thank him for his services to the crown, or merely to execute him themselves, I do not care. You are a uniquely valuable man, Mark. It’s rare that you get to collect two bounties for the same hostage.”

  “It’s just a shame you went and tried to kill me! That was a very foolish thing to do, and though I will take no pleasure in it, I shall have to make an example of you. By rights, I should be welcoming you into Fangmar with open arms and showering you with gifts. By slaying my rivals, you have made me the strongest warlord in all of Lotheria! Soon, I shall be strong enough to oppose Darloth itself. That is precisely what I shall do, once they’ve paid your ransom of course.”

  “For that is my ambition, men. Just think of it. All those farms to plunder. All those weak old men to slaughter. All those meek young boys to enslave. All those raven-haired beauties to rape. For that is the Morrowfow way.” he declared, to howls and cheers from his bestial warriors.

  “You have done remarkable things, Mark, but still I wonder why you executed your victims as did? Why did you rip them apart, and turn them into blood-eagles? Was it a message? A warning perhaps? For little old me? A reminder of why you bear this grudge against me, hmm? Did you want me to quake in my boots, to fear your arrival?” he said, slapping him playfully about the face. He squeezed Mark’s cheeks like an adult would to do a child.

  “And then this? A crossbow hidden in the cloak?” Maedoc snorted. “I must say I’m a little disappointed in your, Mark. I had expected better. It’s a cheap trick, and it doesn’t fit in with your modus operandi at all. Has your hatred of me worn your patience thin…Has your lust for vengeance turned this calculated killed into an opportunist?”

  Mark stayed silent, though his furious eyes and scowling lips told Maedoc he was right.

  “Hmmm. Cat’s got his tongue. Let’s see if I can’t convince him to open up a little. Come, men. We ride for Fangmar!” cried Maedoc as torches were thrown into the sacred groves and the stone coffins of the Calvii ancestors were broken open and their bones tossed out.

  “Cheer up, Mark.” Maedoc grinned, slapping him on the shoulder as they made their way towards the chariots escorted by a gang of foul-smelling Morrowfow. “There’s nothing like a nice relaxing ride through the countryside to make oneself feel a little more chipper. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  Chapter Eight: The War Pit

  Tears ran from Mark’s eyes as he stumbled about, looking around frantically. He staggered this way and that through the Grimwold Forest’s dark underbelly, a thicket of briars, tree roots and undergrowth, dank and muddy, made dark by the mesh-like canopy above.

  He’d been looking around for what felt like hours. He was a mediocre tracker at the best of times, let alone in this frantic state. He’d lost the trail. He wished that it had been the other way around. If it was Hesetti who was trying to find him, she would have done it by now.

  She was gone. Missing, without a trace. It was hopeless. He fell to his knees in despair, hands on his face, his brain numb with worry.

  Then he heard something above the croaking of frogs, the cawing of crows and the rustling of leaves. He heard a gasping, as if someone were choking.

  Mark shot up and dashed towards it. In the distance he could make out a body propped up against a tree. At first he feared it was Hesetti, and his heart thundered, but as he got closer it was clear it was a man. A savage. A black-painted Morrowfow.

  An arrow was stuck through one of his eyes. The other flitted about madly. He choked on phlegm and blood, dying a slow, painful death.

  “No…” pleaded Mark as he searched the man’s body. The Morrowfow were the most brutal of all the savage peoples. If Hesetti had been taken away by them…

  His worst
fears gained credence as he inspected the arrow’s fletching. It was one of hers.

  “Where is she!” he roared, tears streaming from his eyes as he grabbed the man by the throat. What little life was left in him was soon choked out.

  Mark desperately looked around, pleading “No…” over and over again, scanning the ground around where the barbarian lay.

  He saw footprints in the mud, some stamped, some scraped, indicating a scuffle at close quarters. It looked like there had been a group of men, seven at least. One pair of footprints was smaller than the others. It was Hesetti.

  Mark followed the footprints, praying “No…” over and over. The gaps between her footprints grew longer. She must have broken into a run. Perhaps she had broken free of them and made her escape…

  But his worst fears were soon realised. There were three more bodies. They lay in various states of dismemberment. All Morrowfow, all killed with a longsword which lay there in the mud. It was Hesetti’s.

  The footprints turned away from the carnage and pressed on through the forest. There were footprints of four men, but Hesetti’s were nowhere to be seen except for a trail which showed where she had been dragged along by her captors. She had been taken by them. Was she killed in the scuffle, and dragged off dead by the Morrowfow? Or did she live still?

  Mark followed their footprints as far as he could, all the while sick with fear, terrible visions flashing through his head, possibilities and scenarios too terrible to contemplate.

  He lost the trail as they passed a river. The ground on the other side was thick with undergrowth and leaves, dried firm by the morning sun. He could follow no further. The trail had gone cold.

  “No, no, no…” Mark pleaded to whatever gods, spirits and ancestors might have been listening as he crouched down and cried. He was helpless. Utterly helpless.

  Such was his grief and madness, his utter desperation, that he sought help from the most brutal warlord in all of Lotheria. Not knowing where else to turn, he handed himself in to the Morrowfow at the gates of Fangmar. He had hoped against hope that she might be being held captive, unharmed perhaps, for she would be a valuable hostage. He hoped, maybe, that he could exchange himself for her. He would have a large bounty on his head for betraying the King of Darloth, larger still than Hesetti’s.