Warlord Slayer Page 18

  But as he kneeled before Warlord Maedoc, all he found was ridicule.

  “The great Mark of Darloth, the Slayer of Warlords, the Scourge of the Barbarians…” laughed Maedoc, sat upon his throne. “Absconds and betrays his king to live a peaceful bucolic life…And with a barbarian woman, no less?”

  The Morrowfow raiders formed a circle around Mark. They mocked and laughed, howled and hissed. Maedoc’s hall was cavernous, lit a fiery orange by the light of a bonfire behind Maedoc’s throne. It illuminated him with a fiery aura. He looked like a daemon, sat there upon his black throne, a cruel glint in his eyes and a mocking grin on his face. Mark, physically and emotionally exhausted, terribly beaten by his captors, supplicated himself before him in utter surrender.

  “How can it be that a wall-builder like you, a man who hates the barbarian scum, could fall for a piece of savage Lotherian pussy?” he mocked further.

  Mark mustered the guts to speak and address this pitiless daemon. “Please tell me…Do you have her?”

  “Let me put you at ease, Mark of Darloth.” said Maedoc. “She is here.” There was cruel laughter from the men.

  A little spark of hope fluttered through Mark’s heart. “Show me.”

  “What do you recon boys? Shall we show him?”

  They all roared out in unison, and a gang of them grabbed Mark by the arms and dragged him off.

  A terrible march followed, one which Mark could never forget, one where every last ounce of hope and joy within him left him for good. He was made to lead the procession, his wrists bound in chains, as Maedoc followed behind him, his warriors coming after. They trudged out of Fangmar, Maedoc’s foetid hill-fort, across the sodden, muddy hills of Morrowfow territory. Deep down, Mark knew where they were going. But he couldn’t admit it to himself. It was too horrible to comprehend.

  Maedoc’s infamous War Pit had been dug into one of the tallest hills around Fangmar. As you climbed the hill, you began to smell the pit long before you saw it. The distinctive smell of rotting flesh. You could see vast swarms of carrion birds flying around it. Then, as you got closer, you could hear the buzzing of flies, and see seething swarms going this way and that. Then, closer still, you could see impaled bodied rising out of the pit.

  Mark turned back. He couldn’t do it. He cried. He whimpered. He couldn’t go on.

  “Come, Mark, my boy, I know it’s hard.” said Maedoc, patting him on the shoulder. “But your beau is just over that hill. Aren’t you eager to join her? Come, let me take you to her.”

  Maedoc dragged Mark up the hill, sobbing and crying, until at last he threw him down on his hands and knees. They were overlooking the War Pit, but Mark covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look.

  “Look, Mark. There she is. The love of your life, the apple of your eye. Come, boy, look at her.” said Maedoc, as the Morrowfow gathered round, laughing cruelly. “Look at her!” roared Maedoc, and Mark’s hands at last fell from his eyes, dripping tears. As he looked upon the horrid scene, he gasped short, tearful breaths.

  It was a charnel house of gore. Thousands upon thousands of bodies all piled up on top of one other. Some were freshly dead, others rotting, and beneath them was a cluster of bones. The bodies of horses and livestock mingled with the corpses of slain captives and warriors. Carrion flew in massive flocks, feasting on the dead. The weapons and armour of the dead were scattered about the place, rusted and broken. In the middle of the pit, a cluster of warriors had been impaled on long pikes. The gory tips of the pikes protruded from their mouths. Their chests had been ripped open and their innards exposed. They were blood eagles.

  Then he set his eyes upon her. She stood alone, impaled on a spear. Her body had been opened up like the others.

  “Come, let’s take a closer look.” beamed Maedoc, gleefully, and as Mark’s world crumbled around him he was dragged through the pit sobbing like a baby. The pitiless monster dragged him through the rotting gore, bones cracking and wet, rotting bodies squelching beneath each of his heavy footfalls.

  Mark was thrown down in front of her, and Maedoc grabbed him by the hair and pulled back his head. He looked up at her, torn open like an animal carcass. Her eyes, as deep and blue as they had been in life, looked down at him.

  Mark could look no more. He put his head in his hands and cried. His entire body quivered with grief.

  Maedoc knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him, and whispered cruel, mocking words into his ear.

  “Now, now, Mark. It’s hard. I know it’s hard. It’s hard to lose the ones we love. But you should see this as a blessing. They say that every cloud has a silver lining, and this cloud is no exception, though dark and tempestuous it may be.” He leant in really close to deliver his final taunt. “After what my men did to her, killing her was an act of mercy.”

  Chapter Nine: One Last Chance

  Mark woke up and gasped. His whole body was numb and cold, yet his brow was fiery hot. His limbs ached terribly. And all the while his leg throbbed. He winced as he remembered how much he hurt, pain he had half-forgotten during his restless sleep.

  He sat up in his makeshift bivouac, which in practice was a few leafy branches propped over a muddy ditch. He inspected his bandages. They were caked in gore and puss from the infected bolt-wound in his calf. Getting the damn thing out had been painful enough, but it was nothing compared to the lingering pain that came after.

  Mark was no medicine man, but he knew that an infection was a dangerous thing. It is said that more men died after a battle from infected wounds than are slain on the battlefield itself. But what option did he have but to press on, and hope it healed of its own accord? He could try and find a medicine man or herbalist, but such men were rare and the wilds of Darloth were largely deserted. What’s more, Tiroginus’ hired thugs had made him wary of populated places. What if more of his countrymen had been sent to kill him? No, he would just have to soldier on.

  His trek that day was a painful one. He hobbled along, limping, at one point making a makeshift crutch from a tree branch, although he gave up on that when the rotten wood snapped under his weight. So he limped on through the muddy pathways of Darloth, heading for barbarian country.

  The landscape was hilly with scattered trees. Snow and mud covered the ground. He followed the treeline of the imposing Grimwold Forest which blotted out the horizon to his left, and the icy stream which trickled along to his right.

  As the forced trudge went on, Mark found himself becoming unbearably cold. His limbs ached terribly, and his head throbbed. He had to stop regularly to catch his breath. And where he had planned to sit down for five minutes, at times he ended up drifting off for god knows how long in a restless, feverish sleep.

  What little progress he was making slowed to a crawl as the land became rocky and mountainous. He dragged himself up scree slopes and constellations of boulders until he could scarcely move.

  But he knew he had to go on, even if he’d have to drag himself the whole way. He was dead set on avenging Hesetti and the suffering she went through at the hands of Warlord Maedoc. But first he would have to complete his redemption in the eyes of King Tiberix and the thegns. He would have to complete his mission and slay Warlord Tiroginus. It would have been a tremendous task even if he were in rude health. But like this?

  A little jolt of hope fluttered within him as he spied a huntsman’s lodge nestled away between the rocky slopes and the snow-strewn evergreen trees above. He would have to be patient in his pursuit of revenge. He couldn’t well take down Tiroginus like this. He would seek food and shelter. He had a pouch full of barbarian gold which he could use to pay for it.

  So he climbed. At first the prospect of food and rest gave him strength, but that was quickly sapped away by the gruelling climb. Were he fully fit he might have scaled it in a couple of hours. But in this state, woozy, weak and in great pain, it felt like it took an eternity.

  Eventually Mark managed to crawl u
p to the hut, which was large and looked well-built. The hut had a stone patio with a wooden bench on it, and wind chimes hanging from the roof. There were a number of other shacks and storehouses nearby. It seemed almost homely.

  It took all of Mark’s strength to stand up, and even then he swayed unsteadily. He knocked on the door and waited. There came no reply.

  The huntsman was out, it seems. No matter. Mark would take a well-earned rest. Then if the huntsman were to turn up, he would ask for shelter and food in exchange for barbarian gold. If not, he’d break in and take what he wanted. Either way was fine.

  Mark slumped down in front of the door and let his pain drift away from him, just for a moment, as he slipped into a deep sleep.

  Mark was in a forest. It was unfamiliar, but that didn’t make him feel uneasy. It was a pleasant place, with flowers growing from the bark of the trees, and blossom petals floating in the air. But there was no birdsong. In fact there were no birds at all. He didn’t know if it was night or day. What he could see of the sky through the trees was dark blue with shards of green.

  He heard a woman humming. She was humming a song that her mother used to sing to her. Mark recognised it and tried to find her. He wasn’t worried or anxious. In his heart he knew that she was near.

  Then he saw her, wearing her flowing white dress, the one she’d worn when they first met. She was turned away from him, her glittering red hair falling past her shoulders. She started walking on through the forest.

  Mark didn’t call out to her or run to her. He simply followed. He felt at ease simply for knowing that she was there.

  They walked for hours, it seemed, through a labyrinth of trees. She never stopped, never turned around, never stopped humming that tune of hers. Not until she stepped into the water.

  At that point Mark became aware that they were outside the forest, standing by a huge lake. The water was shimmering and still. Large hills surrounded the lake, which had a beach of pebbles. The pebbles tickled Mark’s bare feet as he walked on them.

  When Hesetti stopped, Mark stopped too. She turned to him. Mark smiled when he saw her face, but there was something a bit vague about it. He remembered her deep blue eyes, and her beauty, and her dimples when she smiled. But he couldn’t remember every detail.

  “Let’s go out over the lake.” she said to him in her soft voice. Again, he couldn’t remember it exactly, but it was comforting to hear it once again.

  She sat down in a small dingy with a paddle in it that might have appeared then and there or might have been there the whole time. Mark sat down on the beach.

  “Why don’t you get in?”

  “I can’t go with you. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re still there.”

  “Where?”

  For a brief moment, thoughts of the terrible War Pit flashed through Mark’s mind. Hesetti became covered in blood, ripped open, rotting…

  But it was only fleeting. Mark pushed those thoughts deep down and locked them away for the time being, and he was looking upon the woman he loved once again. He took a deep breath and spoke once more.

  “There’s part of you that’s still here with me.”

  “What part?”

  “Your vengeance. It’s still here.”

  Hesetti said nothing more. She turned away to look out onto the lake. She took the paddle in her hands and started rowing. She hummed her mother’s song as the dingy drifted out over the crystal-clear water.

  Mark watched her go, the sound of her song growing quieter and quieter. Eventually, at some point he couldn’t pinpoint exactly, she wasn’t there anymore. The sound of her singing stopped, and she and the boat were gone.

  This didn’t scare Mark or distress him. He had stayed for a reason.

  Mark shot up, gasping for breath. His eyes flashed left and right as his survival instincts kicked in.

  He was lying on a comfortable bed on top of a thick mattress and fur sheets. Bright sunlight poured in through the window opposite. The room had little ornamentation, just some furniture and a cup of water next to the bed.

  Mark felt stronger than he had done before, but he was still tired and aching. He was sweating a little, but the fever had gone. His left trouser leg was rolled up and his wound was dressed and bandaged. Rather than Mark’s half-arsed job, it was bandaged up neatly with clean rags. Mark slowly undressed and inspected the wound. Some strange herbs had been stuffed into it. It didn’t hurt nearly as badly now. It seemed to be well on the mend.

  Mark tested his wounded leg by standing on it. It was still sore, and he winced when he put weight on it, but the throbbing pain was largely gone.

  He began to put two and two together. He must have been taken in by the huntsman and patched up. Where were his weapons? Nowhere to be found. His belt, with his gold? Gone too. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious for. A while, he guessed, based on the improved state of his leg.

  There was no reason to think he was in danger, but Mark was a paranoid man. He limped his way over to the window and peered out. He could see some movement out there, but his vision was blurry through the cloudy glass. He slowly prised open the door and peeked out.

  The room next door was a kitchen, with a pot cooking over a fire, tables and chairs, stores of food, bread and cheese on the table.

  He spotted the front door. He hobbled towards it, but before venturing outdoors he grabbed a meat hook off a rack nearby, just in case.

  Slowly, and with the hook poised, Mark opened the door and peered out. He girded himself and stepped out of the hut.

  There was a woman outside hanging up some linen on a washing line. She turned to pick another sheet out of the basket, and then she spotted Mark, stopped what she was doing and stood bolt upright.

  At first Mark struggled to see her as the sun shone from directly behind her. Then he held up a hand to block the sunlight and he was able to get a good look at her. Pretty, with long, curly black hair and dark eyes, starting to wrinkle around the edges. She wore a simple grey peasant’s dress. Mark saw her eyes glance over at the bench by the door. There was a loaded crossbow on it.

  “Oh…” grunted Mark, realising how it looked that he had skulked out holding a giant meat hook. He put the hook down and nodded at the crossbow. “No need for that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” she said, rubbing her hands together nervously.

  “Your husband’s the huntsman?”

  “No, I am. My husband’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m Alena.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you are?”

  “Mark.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mark.”

  “Hmm. You helped me, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long was I out for?”

  “A week, almost.”

  “Hmm.” A short silence followed.

  “You had a bad fever so I dressed your wound with aldersleaf.” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  “How does your leg feel?”

  “Better.”

  “Are you going to thank me?” she said with a bit of a smile.

  “That depends if it’s a favour. If it’s a favour I shall thank you. If you did it for payment then I’ll pay you instead.”

  “Fair enough.” she said, with raised eyebrows. “I’ll take the payment. But that can wait. Are you hungry? Would you like some stew?”

  “Yes, I’ll have stew. Stew is good.”

  She laughed. “Yes, stew is good, isn’t it?”

  After that awkward opening exchange Mark joined her sheepishly in the kitchen. She beckoned to the table and he sat down. It was only when she took the lid off the pot and the pleasant aromas wafted over to him that Mark realised just how hungry he was. He was practically quivering with anticipation as she poured the stew into wooden bowls.

  Mark tucked in without waiting, wolfing it down.

  “You’re hungry.” she said as she ate hers at a measured pace.<
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  “Hungry. Yes. Hungry.” said Mark, between gulps. “Can I have bread?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Mark ripped off half a loaf and started taking big bites out of it.

  “What happened to you?” Alena asked.

  “Crossbow.”

  “Yes I could have guessed that. Who shot you?”

  “A man who was trying to kill me.”

  “…Right…Why was he trying to kill you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “Hmm. No need for that.”

  Alena got the message. They ate in awkward silence for a while longer. Mark only piped up once he’d devoured his half-loaf and three bowls of stew.

  “I’ll pay you well for what you’ve done, but I shall dally no longer. A week has already gone to waste, and I am keen to lose no more time. I’ll be heading out now so if you could bring me my things…My weapons, money and such…I’ll pay you.”

  “You really ought to rest some more. If you go out now your wound won’t heal properly. It’ll get infected again. You’ll get another fever.”

  “Hmm.” Mark furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin. “You know about this kind of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “A couple more weeks should do it.”

  Mark grimaced and huffed. “I can’t wait that long.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I have matters to attend to.” he glowered, distantly.

  Alena laughed. “Okay. I don’t need to about know that either, I suppose. Can you at least tell me who you are? What you do? Are you a soldier?”