Warlord Slayer Page 5

  “You flatter me, Fuckface.” said Buttwort. “Your nads-kick reaction was sublime, as always.”

  “Five bronzes all told.” said Fuckface. “Not bad for a day’s work. I think a trip to the farmsteads is in order tomorrow. What do you reckon? Chicken? Mutton?”

  “You know, I’ve been craving a nice bit of greasy duck.” said Buttwort, slapping Fuckface amiably on the shoulder as they strolled into their humble abode.

  The cave was small, but it was dry and cool and shielded from the mountain wind and rain. Their things – junk really – were scattered about the place along with animal bones and the bronzes they had collected over the last few days. Fuckface set about lighting a fire. Buttwort went to his store of dried meat and berries and started picking out something for supper.

  Fuckface’s fire was soon burning nicely. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. Then he lay back on his wolf pelt rug and reclined with his toes by the fire.

  It was only then that he realised they were not alone.

  Mark jumped out of the gloom, grabbing Fuckface by the throat and looming over him. Fuckface made no noise apart from a pitiful ‘eep’.

  Buttwort turned around at that movement and dropped what he was carrying, emitting a shrill scream.

  “Tell you friend to shut the fuck up.” glowered Mark.

  Fuckface made a shrugging gesture, pretending to be a dumb savage, and Buttwort started running around frantically, screaming and knocking things over.

  “I know you can understand me. I heard you speaking Darlothian on your way up. So tell him to shut the fuck up or I’ll cut off your Johnson.”

  “Righto.” said Fuckface, jitterishly, as Mark’s hand moved towards the dagger on his belt. “Buttwort old chum, could you do as the nice man instructs and shut the fuck up?”

  Buttwort stopped dead still and slapped his hands over his mouth.

  “Listen old man, I have questions, and I need answers. If you’re not able to answer my questions, then you and your friend are useless to me, and I’ll throw you off the cliff. Clear?”

  “Crystal.” said Fuckface, with an exaggerated grin.

  “I was told about two Darlothian hermits who clown about in Skarmjal begging for bronzes. That’s you two, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Your names?”

  “I’ll handle the introductions, good sir.” said Buttwort, gregariously. “I’m Dravin, my friend here is Burt. But round these parts we go by our stage-names: Buttwort and Fuckface respectively. That means…” Their stage-names had been given to them by the barbarians and so and were in the barbaric tongue.

  “I know what it means. But you’re Darlothian evidently. What are you? Runaways? Criminals? Bums?”

  “We’re veterans!” beamed Dravin, gesturing toward a pile of military gear – torn tunics, two rusted hauberks, a rusty sword and a rusty spear. “But, well, our farming careers didn’t provide the sort of retirement income we were expecting, what with our farms being burned down by rampaging Drom. So we came to live in the mountains, and we’ve found gainful employment as buttmonkeys for the wildfolk in Skarmjal.”

  Mark growled. “Likely story.”

  “Oh, err, I can corroborate it, sir, for what it’s worth.” said Burt.

  Mark saw little point in arguing with the old fools. As he loosened his grip on Burt he and Dravin scuttled to the back of the cave. Mark loomed over them.

  “Might I ask who told you about us?” said Dravin, nervously. “Don’t mean to pry, but we don’t make a habit of telling folk where our abode is.”

  “Some Albrante. I didn’t catch his name. He’s not with us anymore.” glowered Mark “I found your cave by following you here last night.”

  “And, err, might I ask what you’re doing here?” said Burt. “Not here to rob a couple of poor old beggars, I hope.”

  Mark scowled. “Please. The Albrante’s hauberk was worth more than everything in this rotten cave combined. I’m here for information.”

  “Righto.” said Dravin. “And how can we be of service?”

  “I need to know about Skarmjal and Warlord Aelarix. The place is a fortress. How do you two get in?”

  “Normally, the only way in is through the front gate.” Dravin beamed proudly. “But we’ve found a way to shimmy along the cliffs and come down round the back of Skarmshall. It’s a narrow little pathway, too small for a war-party to use, but for us two it does the trick nicely.”

  “You’ve got to do it after dark though.” added Burt. “Otherwise you’ll spot you and send you packing!”

  “And the Warlord? What can you tell me about her?”

  “Ooh, she’s a pretty one alright. I’d like to pack that mule, if you know what I mean.” said Burt, going boggle-eyed and doing a gross humping motion.

  “Enough of the jokes!” snapped Mark.

  “Err, righto.” said Dravin. “She’s a fierce one alright. Some of the blokes in her tribe don’t like taking orders from a girly. But when they stand up to her, she fights them one-on-one, kills ‘em in the Bloody Circle. It’s like a fighting pit of sorts, except it’s not a pit, more of a circle as the name implies.”

  “I see.” muttered Mark. “How often does this happen?”

  “Every few weeks.” said Dravin.

  “Interesting. She must have a lot of enemies.”

  “Upstarts, really. Big-balls warriors, you know the sort. Not much going on up here.” said Dravin, knocking himself on the head.

  “How does she do it exactly?”

  “I tell yer, old chum, it’s a sight to behold.” said Burt. “Just today the guy was like ‘hyuuurugh’ and she was like ‘whooosh’ and cut his head right off!” he said, performing a ridiculous re-enactment.

  “Yeah, but this other time she was like ‘washiiiing’, and come up right under his ribs, sword in the lung, and the guy was like ‘uuuuurk’.” said Dravin.

  “This other time she was like ‘nyaaaaaw’ and came down on him with her sword, right through the shoulder, like ‘thunk’, and the guy went ‘bleeeeurgh’.” said Burt.

  Mark rubbed his forehead. Their jabbering was getting unbearable. “I’ve had quite enough of your damn foolery…She’s quick, then? Nimble? Fights with a sword, goes for the neck and lungs?”

  “That’s about the size of it, yes.” said Burt, with a shrug.

  “And when she’s not fighting off these upstarts, is she well defended?”

  Dravin made a raspberry. “There must be a hundred shield-bearers in Skarmjal! There are men standing guard round Skarshall all day, every day, not to mention her bit on the side Haggorax. I see him training sometimes. He’s no slouch with a sword neither.”

  “Might this be a good time to tell us what this is all about?” suggested Burt. “I mean, maybe we can be of some further assistance? For honest pay, of course.”

  Mark growled. “Fine. I’ll tell you, safe in the knowledge that if you rat me out I’ll dismember you both.”

  The old loons gulped.

  “I’m going to kill her.” Mark scowled.

  “Yoinks!” exclaimed Dravin.

  “Cripes!” said Burt. “I’m guessing’ from your accent you’re a Darlothian too?”

  Mark grunted to the affirmative.

  “Then you’ve come a long way to kill this bird, old chum. Might I ask why?”

  “It’s nothing personal.” said Mark. “She’s an enemy of Darloth so she has to die. I just need to figure out a way to do it.”

  “Right…Well…We’ve nought against the good Warlord ourselves, but we’re patriots too, and, err…Always in search of gainful employment.” shrugged Burt. “We could do a bit of spying for you. Sniffing around, you know. But we’d need to be compensated for our efforts, so…”

  “Your terms?”

  Burt and Dravin conferred briefly, whispering to each other in a none-too-subtle manner.

  “My accomplice and I have discussed the matter, and we’d settle for two pigs and a sheep.” said
Dravin.

  “Done.” grunted Mark.

  “Damn! Should have led with three pigs…” lamented Burt.

  “Very well.” said Mark, heading off. He stopped at the mouth of the cave to deliver his final instructions. “I’ll be back every night until the deed is done. I expect you to bring me details, things I can use. Their defences, comings and goings, ravens arriving with word from afar…I want to know everything.”

  “Err, alright old chum. What should we call you?” said Burt.

  “Mark.” he said. “If you have to.”

  “Well, Mark old boy, might we have one of our pigs a little early, as an advance payment if you will…Just in case, you know…In case you’re apprehended by one of those shield-bearers we mentioned earlier, or in case Aelarix kills you like she does to all the others. Just so that all our honest labour doesn’t go to waste, see?”

  Mark gave a vague grunt before leaving. Burt and Dravin shrugged, none the wiser as to whether he had agreed or not.

  “We have received word from the Visgoti.” said the old man. “Warlord Brogan is dead.”

  There were gasps in Aelarix’s throne room. She sat upon her tall wooden throne sharpening her sword. She gave no reaction save for pausing momentarily and looking the old raven-keeper in the eye. Haggorax stood guard beside her, hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Shield-bearers and taskmasters flanked the hall, Henrik among them, assembled to hear the fateful news.

  “Continue, Memnon.” said Aelarix in her forceful, controlled way as she returned to sharpening her blade.

  The old man, grey-bearded and wearing brown robes, continued to impart his news. “He was killed, they say, by none other than Mark of Darloth, the King’s Champion who abandoned King Tiberix three years ago and has gone unmentioned since.”

  There were gasps and murmurs from the men in the hall. Aelarix gave no reaction, save for a brief pause in her sword-sharpening which few could have noticed.

  Memnon continued. “His ribs were cut open in the style of a blood-eagle sacrifice, and what is more the slayer kept one of the Visgoti alive to tell the tale. I suspect it is a warning, my liege. But a warning to whom, I do not know.”

  “What of the Visgoti?” asked Aelarix.

  “Here the news is graver still. Brogan’s eldest son, Hogath, was killed in the same brawl. His only remaining son, Gargon, is a young and foolhardy man. Upon being named warlord he has declared our alliance broken, and what is more he has declared war not only on the Albrantes, but on all the tribes of Lotheria.”

  “The fool.” scowled Aelarix. “Have we heard from the Calvii?”

  “Not yet, my liege.”

  She sheathed her sword and addressed her men. “We need to muster our tribesmen for an incursion into Visgoti territory. Let’s see if we can’t ‘convince’ the clan elders to elect a different successor.”

  “My liege, Brogan leaves no more male heirs.” said Memnon.

  “Then they’ll just have to pick a female one. Someone who sees the wisdom of respecting your alliances, rather than declaring war on everyone who’ll listed just to prove how big your dick is. Send the order to muster, Memnon. One man in five shall stay and defend the villages. Another man in five shall defend Skarmjal. The rest will come with me.”

  “Might it be wise to await the consent of the Calvii, my liege?” counselled Memnon.

  “We don’t have time for that. We need to fix this before Gargon causes any more trouble. Warlord Tiroginus is a wily old man and I think he will approve of my plan, but we don’t have enough time to wait for his permission. We must act on our own initiative.”

  “Should I inform him of your plan nonetheless?”

  “You may send him a raven.” said Aelarix, thinking things over. “But send it on the day our warhost leaves for Visgoti-land.” There were smirks and chuckles from the men. This way there would be no time for the cautious Tiroginus to put a stop to her war-making.

  “Is that all, Memnon?” she said.

  “Yes, my liege.” he said, bowing low.

  “Good. The rest of you: get the men whipped into shape. I wish to avoid an all-out war with the Visgoti, but I will make war if I have to. The men need to be ready for that.”

  There were bows from the other attendees as Aelarix left the hall for her chamber, followed by Haggorax. The rest of the men shuffled out of the hall.

  Henrik emerged to find a small band of his trainees waiting for the news. “What’s the damage, chief?” asked one of them.

  “Brogan’s dead. Killed by Mark of Darloth of all people, apparently returned from wherever it is he buggered off to three years ago. We’re at war with the Visgoti and the warhost musters. I think that about covers it.”

  Loitering nearby, sharing a few scraps of leftovers which had been thrown to them, were Burt and Dravin. Their expressions were so vacant and gormless, few would have guessed that they were listening intently to every word. Though they played their role as dumb Darlothian hermits they knew enough of the savage tongue to get the gist of things.

  Aelarix paced about her chamber frantically, thinking through everything she had heard. Though she had kept her stern resolve in front of the men, now that she was alone with her lover her fists were clenched and her blood was pumping. Haggorax tried his best to speak to her, but she was in her own world.

  “That execution…The blood eagle…Do you think that was a warning for you?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” she said, curtly.

  “Our alliance with the Visgoti and the Calvii is a tremendous threat to Darloth. Maybe he was sent to kill the warlords of the allied tribes. We’ve already seen the havoc that killing Brogan has caused. If he kills you or Tiroginus next, well…The alliance will be non-existent.”

  “Hmm.” she concurred, distantly.

  “He could be coming for you as we speak. We should add more guards to the doors, send out riders to find out…”

  “Why, you don’t think I could defeat him?” she snapped, with a withering look.

  “I…I don’t know. But I do know that’s he’s a famous killer. Before his disappearance, he must have seen off at least a dozen warlords. You’re a uniquely skilled warrior, that much is true, but could you defeat Mark of Darloth? I simply don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about his skill. I have seen it.” she snapped.

  Haggorax looked down at his feet, sheepishly, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Aelarix sat down beside him and stared at the ground.

  “You’ve never told me how it happened.” he said, putting his hand on hers.

  Aelarix was silent for a while. Haggorax was patient, and waited until she was ready to tell her story.

  “It was eight years ago. The Darlothian army caught our warhost coming out of Black Pass. We weren’t even on our way to Darloth. We were going to make war with the Calvulani. But the Darlothians thought we had grown too powerful, so they had come to decimate us. King Tiberix rode forth with his closest thegns. My father rode out to meet him. He took my brother and I with him, and a dozen huscarls.”

  “My father challenged him to a fight to the death, as honour and tradition dictates. Tiberix chose his champion to fight in his stead. He summoned Mark from within the Darlothian ranks. I remember him well. Ice blue eyes. Black hair. He didn’t have his scar back them. He walked with such grim certainty, like a wolf stalking wounded prey, axes resting on his shoulders.”

  “He had a reputation, sure, but it wasn’t what it is now. He had only taken the heads of a few warlords by that point. I remember being anxious for my father, but confident that he would prevail. My father was a famous warriors, strong and brave. But now that I look back on it, I think he knew he was doomed. He had the look of a man who was about to meet his fate. He kissed my brother and I on the cheek. I remember the last words he said to me: ‘Be fierce, little flower’.”

  “That’s what he used to call me when I was a girl. He was so protect
ive of me as a child. I was his little angel. I thought he would object to me becoming a warrior. But he was more proud of me than ever. Relieved, perhaps, that I had chosen a life of war, preferable as it is to life as a rival warlord’s bride.”

  “I remember the look on his face as he took his sword and shield and went to meet his challenger. Grim resignation, as if he were walking into hell itself.”

  “It was all over so fast. I remember the flash of the axe, the spurt of blood from my father’s neck. Most of all I remember the mocking laughter of King Tiberix and his thegns, watching the duel from atop their horses.”

  “My brother was mad with grief. He took his sword and charged at Mark. The Darlothians did not intervene. They knew what was going to happen. He died just as fast as my father did.”

  “I’m sorry.” said Haggorax, sensing her story was done.

  Aelarix shook her head. “There’s no need. I didn’t see it at the time, for I was consumed with grief. But now that I look back on it, I see that Mark inspired me. With two swings of his axe he wiped out all the male heirs of my tribe. The battle which followed was short and chaotic. Leaderless, half of our shield-bearers were butchered there and then. So much power, all in the edge of his axe.”

  She unsheathed her sword and inspected its shimmering blade. “I knew soon after that I wanted to fight like he fought. I wanted to have that much power – the power to build and break dynasties, to win and lose battles – in my own blade.”

  She turned to Haggorax with an stern stare. “If he comes after me, he will find himself up against a better version of himself. For while he fought for a King, I fight for myself. I will kill him, and prove myself to be the equal of his legend.”

  Mark returned to the old hermits every night, and they reported back to him in their own inimitable style – troop movements, goings on, Aelarix’s habits. Mark himself also scouted Skarmjal from afar, donning brown rags and a hooded cloak so that he would look like a shepherd or beggar from a distance. One night the hermits took Mark along their secret path. It was little more than a secluded gorge in the cliff-face which they could shimmy across all the way to the walls of Skarmjal. There, a gap in the palisade was plugged by a boulder which the old farts could heave aside, leaving a gap large enough to crawl through. It would be a squeeze, but Mark reckoned he could fit through it. But not yet. He would have to bide his time.