The Madness of Gods and Kings (23 page)

When he at last found his voice, it was shaky, unstable. “Has this plague burned itself out yet? I can’t risk marching into Chadra only to take ill.”

The old man was more than willing to deliver any information the mad king required. Anything to keep his life at least a little longer. “So far as we was told, aye. Trader said those still well enough were fleeing into the countryside before the One Eye accused them of being traitors.”

Badron scoffed. As if Harnin had the authority to accuse anyone else of his own crimes. “You’re not a rebel are you? I suddenly find myself growing suspicious with your desire to help me. I don’t need another traitor in my midst.”

“Never been no rebellion out this way. We keeps to ourselves as much as possible. This ain’t our war.”

“But it is. This is a war for the very soul of Delranan. How could anyone who calls himself a patriot stand idle and watch it burn around him? I’m beginning not to like your tone, fisherman.”

Hanging his head, certain death was able to snatch him from the mortal world, the fisherman struggled to find a way to buy a few more precious moments. “Milord! Folks in our village have always been loyal to the crown. My own father served in the Wolfsreik when I was but a pup. Delranan is our heart and blood. T’would never seek to turn against you.”

“We shall see. Now, lead us to the redoubt quickly,” Badron demanded. “I have no qualms with putting your head upon a spike to use as my banner.”

Whimpering, the fisherman led them deeper into Delranan and Badron’s appointment with destiny.

The former king of Delranan brooded as he stalked through the light forest. His thoughts centered around Harnin One Eye, former friend and confidant. A man who might have become the interim heir to the throne. One who certainly rose higher upon the death of Badron’s only son. Now a mortal enemy, Harnin continued to drive a wedge between king and kingdom.

New thoughts entered his mind. Wandering in solitude was a dangerous thing. Badron began to wonder if Harnin had had a hand in killing the heir to throne in order to get closer to power. It wouldn’t have been the first time in Delranan’s history. Badron fumed. His son had been his life, the promise of a better future to ensure his kingdom’s prosperity. Those dreams died on the polished, wooden floors of Chadra Keep in pools of blood and compounding misery.

The very concept that Harnin helped orchestrate the break-in and murder of so many guards the night Maleela was abducted hardened his heart. Badron conceded the One Eye often dreamed of power. It was only natural for one in his position. Badron managed to keep him in check, but that sense of control went out of his hands the moment he ill advisedly went on campaign with the army.
The bastard even cautioned me against going, as if he’d planned it all out ahead of time. I should have killed him when I had the chance
.

Remnants of the Goblin army marched at his heels. They plodded through the undergrowth with the grace of Ogres devouring cattle. Badron winced each time a small tree was knocked down. Snarls and wicked laughing drifted on the wind. The Goblins clearly weren’t interested in being obscure. Grugnak had increasing difficulty keeping them from lashing out at Badron’s remaining soldiers. Their allegiance slipped further apart daily. Not that Badron cared. The Goblins were merely a means to an end. Should they all die attempting to sack the redoubt, he wouldn’t mind. Their filth needed to be expunged from Malweir entirely. The deposed king of Delranan continued on, following a weak fisherman whose loyalty remained questionable. Soon, very soon, his time was coming. Delranan would be his once again and the world would burn for it. Hatred raged in his cold, dark eyes.

No Forest Safe

“I’m tired of freezing. We’ve been cold for too long.”

Nothol rolled his eyes. A few days had passed since they parted ways with the rebellion and, while there’d been no sign of enemy activity, none of them could shake the feeling that they were being hunted. Nerves stood on end, worsening the longer they spent on the road.

One of the horses had gone lame the morning before. Bahr was forced to put it down. Just to make matters worse it was one of the wagon horses. The Sea Wolf reluctantly gave up his horse for a replacement and the exhausted band carried on. They’d gained the border of a small forest whose name escaped them and pushed in. All were eager to get out of the elements and find warmth with a fire and freshly roasted meat.

“Do you get tired of complaining? You’re looking at the wrong side of the situation, Dorl. Each day we spend out in this lovely wilderness is one closer to reaching our objective and finally being able to go about our business. Don’t worry so much about the cold as what might happen when we get to the ruins.”

“You’re the reason I drink. I hope you know that,” Dorl replied tersely.

Nothol shrugged. “I suppose we all need a reason. You’re welcome.”

“Not funny. How much further did Bahr want us to scout today? I can feel the sun going down.” He shivered gently beneath his furs. It had become almost comforting since returning to Delranan. The constant motion served as a reminder of his misery.

Nothol reached back to grab his canteen. “I don’t know. All of these trees look the same to me. We’re not really doing much good out here. Even if we get captured or killed they’re too far behind to know about it until it’s way too late.”

Dorl’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you go and bring that up? I’m not trying to think about death, you daft bastard. A warm fire and a belly full of cooked food, hot, cooked food, is all I need to get my mind right again. Bring up death again and we’re going to fight.”

“Ha! You couldn’t beat yourself up right now,” Nothol chided. “I guess we should start looking for a suitable campsite. A fire does sound pretty good right now.”

They kept riding, bickering back and forth. Neither noticed the three sets of eyes watching their every movement from within the shadows of a nearby stand of holly bushes.

The wagon ground to a halt not long after Dorl rode back with news of a suitable position. Words of praise and relief were passed to the sell sword. Everyone was tired of travelling and ready to take advantage of those precious few hours when they weren’t heading towards the inevitable confrontation between good and evil. Ironfoot and Groge headed off to chop down pine branches to use as protection from the wind, and to reduce the fire’s visibility to prying eyes when it got dark.

The Dwarf and Giant were perhaps the most unlikely pair working in tandem at any point on Malweir. Groge, despite being taller and much larger, was a relative novice compared to the experienced, disgruntled Ironfoot. The Dwarf stalked his way through the underbrush like a warrior on the hunt. Martial prowess was ingrained in every Dwarf, and these skills translated into every action they performed, regardless of intensity or relevance. Groge, conversely, was the exact opposite. Giants weren’t the warriors of old. He stumbled and plodded his way through the forest like an inexperienced child.

“You need more training,” Ironfoot grunted as he chopped through a thick pine bough.

Groge did the same, though from much higher up. “Training for what?”

“For being a soldier. It takes skill to move through terrain unseen, unheard. No Dwarf would have ever allowed himself to be heard approaching through this scrub,” Ironfoot half scolded. He found it difficult to remember Groge was older, but barely considered an adult among his people. The Dwarf simply didn’t understand some of the other races.

Thoughts like that made him miss Drimmen Delf. He ached to be back in the mighty caverns, in front of roaring fires trading stories of exaggerated battlefield heroism. Ironfoot had earned his place among the greatest tales from his experience in the raid on the dark Dwarves’ cannon batteries. Unfortunately King Thord sent him off with Bahr before he got the opportunity. The Dwarf captain relished his chance to stand before his peers with tales of his adventures in lands far from the Dwarf kingdom. His place of honor as grand story master was secured for generations, provided he made it home alive.

Groge offered a child-like grin that was lost between the branches. “Ironfoot, you know I am no warrior. I am just an apprentice to a forge master. Wars are not what I was created for. I am a craftsman.”

Shaking his head, Ironfoot grumbled, “Indeed. This isn’t Venheim, Groge. We are alone in a savage world. Everyone we meet seems inclined to kill us. You’re the biggest of our group and could be a terrible force once you learn how to use your natural skills. I’d go so far as to think even Boen would respect you.”

He embellished slightly. Boen was Gaimosian. He didn’t respect anyone, regardless of their race, unless they were Gaimosian. That definitely made Groge’s quest more difficult, if not impossible. Ironfoot decided not to bother explaining that last part. What the youth didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him any. His lack of experience just might, however.

Ironfoot set his axe down. “Groge, I need you to understand this.” He paused for the young Giant to kneel down.
Damnation. Even kneeling he’s still more than twice as tall as I am
. “This is war. I know Bahr has tried to steer us clear of actual fighting, but this is war. Not all of our merry little group is going to survive to see it through. We’ve already lost two before reaching Trennaron.”

“I understand, Ironfoot. I do.”

“No, I don’t think you really do. Ionascu was a waste of life. It was only a matter of time before Lord Death claimed him. I won’t pretend to lie to you. We are better off without him. He was cancerous. Maleela’s loss hurts worse.”

“But we don’t know if she’s dead,” Groge protested.

“Does it matter? She might as well be. The emptiness of her place among us fills many with grief. Can you honestly say that won’t affect them once the final battle begins?”

Groge shook his head. “Why does this matter?”

“It matters because we all need to be at our very best if we’re going to survive. That means I need you to take an interest in weapons and fighting, even if for the sake of saving some of the rest of us.” Ironfoot slapped him on the kneecap. “Besides, if you can’t use that hammer for anything you can always step on people.”

They shared a brief laugh. Groge wiped his eyes clear before saying, “Very well. I will do my best to learn just enough to keep us all alive. I’ll do it for you, Ironfoot.”

“No lad, do it for yourself.”

The brigands struck the camp while most of the defenders were gathering firewood or water from a nearby stream. Only Anienam and his warder, Skuld, remained behind. They were quickly overwhelmed and held at sword point as the score of brigands rummaged through sacks and personal belongings in search of a quick reward. The street thief wanted to retaliate, despite knowing he’d be run through long before reaching the brigand guarding him.

“These people have shit! I say we kill the old man, take the boy to sell him to the slave traders in the desert, and burn the wagon,” a tall man with a pencil-thin, black moustache snapped.

Several heads nodded agreement.

One other stepped forward. Heavily muscled, or perhaps just bundled nicely against the cold, he bore the look of an ex-soldier. Skuld had seen his sort before. Thinking they were better than everyone else, they shoved others aside and took what they wanted from ones unwilling to stand up for their rights. Skuld had fought against men like this his entire life. The perception that any one man was greater than the next offended him. He may have been raised in the streets of Chadra, but his worth was unquestionable.

He’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least try to stop the brigands. “You’ll never get away with this.”

He was rewarded by a swift backhand across the face and a chorus of laughter.

“Pipe down, boy. The world’s not going to miss one old man and gutter trash boy,” the moustache said.

Anienam remained quiet, though he could hear Skuld struggling to understand why. The last wizard on Malweir should be more assertive. Magic should already be rendering these common thieves into ash. Alas, his magic didn’t work that way. Anienam was vowed to preserving life, not exploring new ways to destroy it. Besides, he couldn’t tell Skuld that it was all going to be fine. Not without the brigands hearing.

“Leave him be. We don’t want our property damaged. Nobody will buy a boy with marks on his face,” their leader laughed.

Glaring, the moustache slammed a fist hard into Skuld’s stomach, doubling him over.

Between tears and the sudden urge to vomit, Skuld struggled to rise and show his defiance. “You…shouldn’t…have done…that.”

The moustache looked up at the rest of his group with mock surprise. “The boy’s a comedian! I haven’t laughed so hard in years.”

“Maybe we should keep him around as a jester. Every court needs a fool,” the leader said.

“Dress him in a costume and make him dance!”

“Parade him around. We need a good laugh!”

“The old man can be his keeper!”

Laughter sang across the campsite. The brigands went about their work, steadily growing more agitated that the wagon held practically nothing of importance.

Finally the leader could take no more. Hands held high, he marched to the center and faced his men. “Let’s put it to a vote, lads. Keep ‘em or kill ‘em!”

The man standing directly in front of him suddenly pitched forward with a gargled cry and a spray of hot blood bursting from his back. The ensuing roar took everyone by surprise. Stunned faces turned to see Ironfoot barreling out of the trees. The Dwarf ripped his axe from the dead brigand and dove into full attack. His first blow disemboweled the nearest brigand. The second took a head from the shoulders. By then the others recovered enough to defend themselves. It wasn’t enough.

No one anticipated the Giant breaking through trees. Still unsure of weapons, Groge kicked the nearest man. The body flew hard and fast through the trees, striking a large poplar with a bone-breaking crunch. He quickly reached down to snatch another by the neck, throttling him before he could get his hands up in a futile attempt at stopping the Giant.

“RUN!” the leader bellowed. Fighting a lone Dwarf was one thing, but a Dwarf and a Giant were an entirely different matter. The situation had become untenable. They were all going to die unless they fled back to their cave deep in the forest.

They never had the chance to run. Boen and the others arrived moments later, sealing the brigands in what devolved into a slaughter. Not a one was left alive. Some managed to put up a fight before being ground under sword and axe. The moustache faced off against Rekka, a small woman who should know better than to play with swords. Grinning savagely, he lunged hard and fast. Rekka sidestepped and tore his throat open with a lightning fast strike. He died with the most confused look etched on his face.

The last survivor, their leader, dropped his weapons and raised his hands in surrender. “Please! I’m unarmed! You can’t kill an unarmed man.”

Boen jerked his sword free from the stomach of his last opponent and stalked towards the leader. Without a word he plunged his sword into the leader’s chest so hard three inches burst from his back. The last brigand dead, the battle was over. Fuming, the Gaimosian ripped his blade free and paused to wipe the blood and gore on the dead man’s chest before sheathing it. His menacing glare kept the others at bay, though Bahr stared him down from across the small battlefield.

They’d all seen, and some had done, harsh acts of violence before. Most were done through necessity, but what Boen just finished went beyond comprehension. He’d been relatively calm the entire journey, save for his continual tirades and need to get into a fight. Killing an unarmed man who had already surrendered was murder. Gaimosians didn’t murder unless there was no other way around it.

Daring any of them to comment, Boen swiveled his gaze to each before stalking back to his horse. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Steam poured off of his head and hands. His breath nearly froze the moment it touched the open air. He could feel their eyes on him as he walked away, and he could care less. None of them noticed the pain hidden behind his eyes or the way he just wanted to leave this life behind. Boen, for all of his faults and strengths, was tired.