Warlord Slayer Read online

  “What’s wrong lad?” Brogan called to him.

  “I’ve got something on my mind.” sighed Hogath.

  “Speak, lad, speak! Oh, wait…Let me guess. My boy has got the marriage blues!” Brogan and his men laughed, one of them slapping Hogath on the shoulder. He just about managed to humour them with a smile.

  “You know marriage is a wonderful thing, lad.” said Brogan, holding court. “Your mother and I have been in love for many years, and she has brought me a great deal of happiness, not to mention six young nippers.”

  “Father, have you seen the Calvii wench I’m set to marry?” snorted Hogath.

  One of the men laughed. “Aye, she’s twice as big as he is! Arse the size of a farmhouse door!” he said, with helpful gestures.

  “Come now, my boy.” counselled Brogan. “Your mother’s no looker either, but with guts, mead and a little imagination, I got the job done just fine. You wouldn’t be sat here today otherwise. And if you’re worried about missing out on life’s carnal joys you needn’t worry. Being married hasn’t stopped me fucking my way through half of Lotheria. I must have fucked women from at least seventeen different tribes, and plenty of Darlothians to boot. All while I was married, mark you. In my bachelor days, before my betrothal, I was even more virile.”

  “Yes, we’ve all heard the stories.” chuckled a grey-bearded wildman. “The one involving the cooked boar was particularly revealing…”

  Brogan laughed with his men. “A story for another time, perhaps.”

  “I just don’t see why we have to kowtow to the damn Calvii!” protested Hogath. “We have to marry who they tell us to, fight who they tell us to…We are the Visgoti, furious and proud, and here we are taking orders from Warlord Tiroginus, a man who doesn’t even have the guts to fight beside his own men. We should take our orders from you and you alone, father!”

  There were murmurs of approval from the men, but Brogan was having none of it. “Now now, boy, you ought to think before you speak. I take orders from no-one. An alliance is an alliance – we work together. We agree who marries, to make our bonds stronger – together. We agree who to attack, to defeat our enemies – together. And think, men…It is this alliance which allows us to raid Darloth, to kill the wall-builders, to plunder their farms and carry off their women. If it were not for the alliance, we would all be huddled up in Ferrenmar, paranoid and fearful of attack. An alliance makes all parties stronger.”

  Hogath nodded slowly and sighed in resignation. He wouldn’t dare contradict his father in front of the men. “Well said, father.”

  “Come, boy, get your chin up!” Brogan roared in merriment once more. “Tell you what, first thing tomorrow we’ll find you a nice Darlothian girl to take your mind off your betrothal to the lovely – yet substantial – Gretir of the Calvii. Consider it an engagement present. Have you ever fucked a Darlothian girl before, boy?”

  “No, father.”

  “Well, my son, you’re in for a treat. Raven hair. Blue eyes. Skin as pale as the new moon. They’re soft enough while they’re young, though toil makes them rougher with age. They’re tame, too, not like our Visgoti girls. They don’t fight back. They don’t bite, they don’t spit, they don’t scratch…”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” muttered a curmudgeonly warrior, to roaring laugher. Even Hogath perked up, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, son, unless you’re a sick bastard who enjoys getting beaten up by women like Bors here, a Darlothian maiden is the best lay you’ll ever have. You mark my words, boy.”

  Their raucous drinking would go on long into the night, but Mark had heard enough. There he lay amongst the piled dead, playing possum, listening intently to their lewd tales and bawdy jokes, for he was fluent in the barbarian tongue.

  Mark dragged himself out of the stinking pile of corpses and crawled away from the flicker of the fire and the echoing laughter of the wildmen.

  Then something caught his eye – a farmhouse upon the horizon, large and sturdy, sat atop a hill. It wasn’t too far away. Well in view of the barbarians’ camp. Mark began formulating a plan, a plan that might just work if he was wise about it. But he would need a girl.

  Gabor had spotted the barbarians approaching the day before, and he had watched as they tore down his neighbour’s farmhouse. He hoped Hrangir had been wise enough to hide out in the mountains until the barbarians passed, but with peril so close at hand he spared little thought for Hrangir and his family. He had his own to worry about. Seeing the glow of the barbarians’ campfire that night he woke the children before sunrise and set them to their tasks.

  They knew the drill. The peasants of Darloth had largely been left to fend for themselves the past three years. The King hadn’t helped them, nor the thegns, and the army hadn’t mustered. Those who couldn’t defend themselves would die. But Gabor was a wily old man, and he wasn’t prepared to let that happen to his beloved children.

  They led their flock of sheep into the mountains. They locked up the hounds in their kennels with plenty of food and water. They fed the horses and locked them up in their stable. Then, finally, they would lock themselves away in the upper storey of their farmhouse and wait out the barbarian raiders.

  Perhaps they would try to get into the farmhouse, or tear down the stable, or break into the kennels. Or perhaps they would get tired and bored, and head off to more inviting pastures. Maybe they had sated their thirst for rape and slaughter and would simply return to their tribal homeland. After a night of heavy drinking, Gabor was hopeful it would be the latter. He certainly wouldn’t want to pull down a stone farmhouse built like a castle the morning after an all-night drinking session.

  Anya glanced nervously towards the still-smoking campfire at the bottom of the hill as she carried an armful of hay to the stable. The sun was up but few of the barbarians stirred. Those few who were up practiced their sword-fighting, and she heard the clang of their blades, and laughter as one of them slipped in the mud and fell on his arse.

  She pushed open the stable door and set about feeding the horses. Whenever the barbarians came, she was always most worried about the horses.

  “Just try to be brave.” she said to her favourite, stroking her nose. “It will all be over soon.”

  She gasped as an arm wrapped around her waist, and a hand, as strong as iron, clasped over her mouth.

  “Stay silent.” grunted Mark.

  Anya could do little else, at once terrified of her attacker and also relieved to hear him speaking Darlothian.

  “You’re in no danger. Not yet.” he growled. Sensing he could trust her to keep quiet he took his hand off her mouth and grabbed her by the wrist. He looked her up and down. A bit young perhaps, but from a distance that would be hard to tell. “You’ll do. Who else is in the farmhouse?”

  “My father and my brother. Please don’t hurt them.” she said with hurried, breathless words.

  “I won’t, as long as they don’t do anything stupid. Like pointing a crossbow at me, for example.”

  Mark led his hostage out of the stable and towards the farmhouse. He paused at the door, which was slightly ajar, and listened to Gabor and his son chatting as they gathered the food they would need to hold out against the barbarians. Mark tried to judge from their voices how far away they were. Not more than an axe’s throw away, which was good news. Just in case things get ugly.

  Mark barged through the door, dragging Anya with him. Gabor saw them at once and dropped the basket of apples he was carrying. They rolled all over the floor. Boren stayed dead still, but couldn’t help but glance at the loaded crossbow on the dining table.

  “Nobody move.” grunted Mark.

  “We don’t want any trouble, sir.” appealed Gabor after a few heartbeats.

  “No. I don’t want trouble either. Girl, what is your name?”

  “Anya.”

  “Ok Anya. Bring me that crossbow. And don’t do anything stupid, like try and point it at me.”

  Anya shuffled over to the tab
le and picked up the crossbow. She shuffled back and handed it to Mark, who aimed it at her just so nobody decided to do anything rash.

  Gabor tried to reason with him. “Look, we’ll give you what little money we have, but we can’t delay. There are barbarians just down the hill…”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  “Just take what you want and leave, but let go of my daughter!” implored Gabor.

  “Don’t raise your voice, old man.” said Mark, training the crossbow on him. “You’ll make me nervous. And if I get nervous, I might just pull this trigger.”

  “Fine.” said Gabor, as calmly as he could. “Just keep that thing pointed at me and not the girl.”

  “What’s your name, old man?”

  “Gabor.”

  “Well, Gabor, I’m going to need to borrow your daughter for a while.”

  “What? What for?”

  “Bait.”

  “Bait? What do you mean?” Gabor snapped. Terrible realisation hit him. “Those wildmen? Why would you do that?”

  “Bait…” gasped Anya, cottoning on.

  “Anya, I need you to do something for me.” said Mark in his low, growly tone. “If you do exactly as I instruct then you will live. If not…Then I can’t guarantee your safety. I want you to go down to the well. Fetch some water. The barbarians will see you, and they’ll come for you, but I don’t want you to run from them, or even look at them, until they’ve passed that big boulder halfway up the hill. Then you can start running. And if I were you, I’d run fast. Run back to the farmhouse. I’ll meet you here.”

  The three hostages listened to Mark’s plan in horror. “This is insane!” said Gabor. “If they get her, they’ll…”

  “I think we all know exactly what they’ll do.” snapped Mark. “But you must do what I tell you to, Anya. If I let you go and you run off elsewhere instead of walking down to the well like I’ve asked, I’ll shoot you in the back. If you start running back to the farmhouse before the wildmen reach the boulder, I’ll shoot you in the chest. Understood?”

  Anya was shaking now, and tearful, but she daren’t disobey him. She nodded frantically.

  “Good girl. Now go.”

  As Anya started her slow walk towards the well Mark had the crossbow trained at her back, though he had a good sense that she wouldn’t disobey him. Gabor held his son and stared at Mark in silent fury.

  Hogath was training with a couple of his henchmen, casually clashing swords, when he heard one of them call out.

  “Look, over by the well – it’s a girl!”

  Hogath looked up at the well on the hill, a fortress-like farmhouse beyond it. She was a slender little thing, long black hair fluttering in the wind.

  He looked over at his father, who was scraping the mud from the wheels of his chariot. Warlord Brogan looked up at the fair maiden, who was now fetching water from the well, and nodded sagely. He approved.

  “Go ahead, son. When you’re done, you just try and tell me Darlothian pussy isn’t the best pussy known to man.” he said with a wink and a smile.

  A cruel grin spread across Hogath’s face as he gave his order to the man beside him. “Bring me my horse.”

  The bondsman hurled his spear. Mark ducked and it flew over him, shattering as it hit the stone wall. Mark threw one of his axes, which whistled through the air, burying itself inside the charioteer’s face. He fell, but the reins were lashed around his wrists, and so the chariot swerved violently as he fell off. It tipped over and broke apart, a storm of horse-flesh and splintered wood. Brogan jumped clear of the wreckage. The bondsman was not so lucky, and was crushed by a sheared axle and a falling horse. A great plume of dust was kicked up as the thing overturned, the horses braying madly.

  Warlord Brogan’s ears were ringing. He shook his head, trying to regain his senses. His vision was blurry. His helmet had fallen off and his spear had fallen from his hand. He groped around for his sword as he staggered to his feet. As he pulled the sword from its sheath his eyesight came into focus just in time to see Mark’s fist smash into his face. He fell onto one knee, and Mark’s axe did the rest, slicing through his throat. His head fell back and his neck gaped open, blood spurting out, and his body hit the ground soon after.

  A horseman roared as he charged in, sword poised to sweep through Mark’s skull. A crossbow bolt fizzed through the air and landed in his neck. The rider fell from his horse, which reared up and whinnied before bolting back down the hill.

  Seeing the carnage, and with Mark’s back to the farmhouse so that he couldn’t be surrounded, the other warriors dismounted their horses and leapt from their chariots, keeping a handful of men back to hold the reins. As they readied their weapons the realisation sunk in that their warlord was dead. They might have flown into a furious rage had they not also recognised the mysterious warrior who stood against them.

  “It’s the King’s Champion!” marvelled one of them. “The traitor! Look at the eyes, the scar!”

  “It’s him alright.” said another. “I saw him behead Warlord Drothgar with my own two eyes. Cleaved his head clean off with a single swipe. I though he had disappeared!”

  Their momentary wonderment was interrupted as a crossbow bolt thudded into one of their shields. “Enough talk.” said the shieldsman. “If he disappeared before, he’s not disappeared now. We outnumber him well enough. Come, let us kill him in Brogan’s name.”

  While they were debating, Mark was retrieving his axe from inside the charioteer’s face. He stood ready as the warriors surrounded him, their swords, spears and axes in hand. They gave each other a nervous nod, girded their loins, and charged in with furious battle cries.

  The first to reach him swung his bearded axe. Mark leapt aside and the axe sailed past and smashed into the farmhouse wall. Mark’s axe lashed out, beheading the man so fiercely that his head was still spinning when it hit the ground.

  Mark blocked a sword-swipe with one axe, bringing the other to hook around his assailant’s leg and haul him over. He finished him off with an axe-strike to the crown.

  Another man fell nearby with a crossbow bolt piercing his helmet and the skull beneath it.

  A warrior swung his sword at Mark, who ducked under it, and rose again to plant his axe in the man’s head. He let the axe rest there as a spearman charged at him. He stepped aside of the spear and the wildman barged into him, pushing him back with his shield until his back was pressed against the farmhouse wall. At close quarters, Mark yanked the warrior’s beard and head-butted him. His head jerked back, nose spurting blood. Mark swept his axe across the man’s throat and it burst open, spraying him with fresh blood.

  He just about heard a thud and a squeal above the tumult, indicating that another crossbow bolt had found its mark.

  Mark kept the slain warrior propped up against him, took the dead man’s spear and rammed it into the face of an oncoming axeman.

  Mark pushed the corpses off of him and stepped onwards towards the remaining warriors, who were a little more sheepish now as they stepped over the bodies of their dead comrades and crossbow bolts whistled overhead.

  Three of them nodded to each other, gearing up before all charging in at once. Mark knocked a spear aside and it sailed past, plunging into the swordsman who was charging at him from the other side. He blocked a spiked club which was swung by the last warrior, then grabbed him by the hauberk and dragged him close so that he stood between himself and an archer, whose arrow flew true but hit his own man in the back.

  Mark threw the man’s body to the ground and swept his axe through the spearman’s leg, who writhed about on the floor screaming. A warrior charged at him with two axes in hand, but two crossbow bolts in the chest put paid to that.

  A swordsman, visibly shaken and spattered with the blood of his brethren, made a token attempt to kill Mark was a sword-swipe. Mark swatted the weapon from his hand, contemptuously, and grasped him by the neck, staring directly into his terrified eyes.

  The rest of the warriors were fleeing n
ow, clambering over severed limbs and mutilated bodies, pursued by crossbow bolts. They leapt upon their steeds and chariots and bolted off down the hill from whence they had come.

  Mark looked up to the farmhouse windows, where Gabor and Boren looked down at him, sweating and shaken. He gave them a thumbs up.

  “What are you doing with that one?” asked Gabor as Mark threw the wildman to the ground.

  “I want him to send a message for me.”

  The poor wretch was pleading pitifully in his savage tongue as Mark set about searching the piled bodies for one in particular. When he found Warlord Brogan he dragged him clear of the other corpses.

  “Boren, fetch me some rope would you?” said Mark, and the lad rushed off out of sight. Then he began his work.

  He swung his axe into Brogan’s thorax, and set about opening up his chests, spreading out his ribs like eagle’s wings, exposing his innards.

  “By the grace of the ancestors, what the hell are you doing?” implored Gabor, horrified by the bloody display.

  “Sprits spare me…” muttered the terrified, pale-faced savage as he watched on.

  Mark nodded sagely when he saw that his work was done. “Where’s that rope?”

  “Don’t look, boy. Stay inside.” Gabor implored his son, and he lowered down the rope to Mark, who tied a noose around Brogan’s neck.

  “Hoist him up, old man. Tie the rope to something sturdy.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, warrior.” said Gabor as he set about Mark’s instructions.

  Mark could almost have smiled as he watched the slain warlord being hoisted up, blood-eagled in the way barbarians so love to do to their captives. The Visgoti warrior looked on in horror, jabbering prayers to anyone who would listen.

  “Good.” said Mark to the warrior. “Now you can go.” He whistled at him and nodded towards the horizon. He got the message, and ran off full-pelt down the hill, tripping over his own feet as he did so.