The Warlock's Fortune: Act One Page 3

  I turn back to the camp, with my sturdy shield resting at my side, hoping to find whatever is left of my troop. Splashing through the mud toward me, only a pair of Sigurdians seem to have heard my call. Pockets of fighting remain further away, but it’s clear we’re overrun.

  I guide one blade away and let the other clash against my raised shield, as the two men crash into me. I focus onto a single soldier as I glide sideward, out of reach of the other. As I pass him, my blade raises with a diagonal slash, ripping across his unarmoured stomach. His bowels drop out like a tray of spilled meat. The other turns and jumps forward, meeting my foot as I thrust it out sideways. The bone of my heel drives into his chest like a hammer. His arms whip forward, and he tumbles over into the mud, wheezing for air. The weakened body slowly lifts itself from the sludge, meeting his throat to my blade. A quick, deep slash. The body falls, twitching face down in the muck.

  A half dozen loosely grouped swordsmen trudge toward me, huffing. It occurs to me these men are evidently slowed, weighed on by cheaper fabric armours soaked in rain. Weak blade training, no clear leadership and a poor choice of armour. As I scan the nearby tents, showing no signs of life, I’m suspect of what exactly happened before I rose from my bed. Until my heart stops beating, I’ll not let a single Sigurdian escape my wrath, and once this battle is done, somebody will be found accountable.

  Wild slashes cut through the saturated air, trying to reach me like starving wolves chasing elk. I cannot match the pace of six men at once. If I’m surrounded, I’ll have already lost. I jump backward, past the remains of the fallen, evading every strike. I must only engage a few of them at a time. A shimmer of silver amid the rain. Another Sigurdian has approached unseen, his sword already thrusting toward my ribs. The only escape is forward. My rhythm of retreat is broken. The enemy surround me.

  A gust of water beats past us with the wind, spraying from the statues surrounding me. The inaction cannot last. CLANG. An ear-piercing crash rings out as a charging swordsman bounces from the metal lining of my shield. I cannot think, only my instincts are fast enough to react to these many threats. Falling into some battle trance, I dance between attack and defence. A low resting sword incites me to slash high. Blood sprays from the severed veins in the soldier’s neck. A thought of fear in his replacement, causing hesitation and weakness. His legs buckle as I stomp his knees out from below him, and his shoulder splits open as my blade acts of its own accord, exposing the bloody flesh to the rain sodden moonlight.

  I contort myself to avoid the swords, carefully defending and evading as the others continually hunt for a clean cut. At the same time, blades scrape against my shield. I duck downward, avoiding a horizontal slash, and then sideward, as an overhead strike parts the space I’d inhabited a moment ago. Another is already upon me, as I’d ducked toward him. My blade soars skyward, spraying blood as I shred the flesh from his hip to his armpit and rise from my crouched position. The last few men are a crowd suddenly. Around me stand at least a dozen men, circling their prey.

  My head darts left and right, then behind, then in front. No matter where I watch, someone is out of view and free to attack my back. Surely, they know this too, something holds them at bay though. The warriors must have grown wary, through reputation or observation. They’ve seen me cut down teams of men already, and as their nerve falters, it’s clear they know, whoever advances first will fall to my blade.

  “I’ll kill you all!” I jump forward, slicing the man ahead of me open from his chest to his crotch. In the same moment, a flurry of metal erupts toward me. A sword scratches through the back of my ribcage, narrowly missing a lung. Another rips a chunk from my thigh. Without time to notice the pain, I put my head under my shield and rush a narrow gap between two men. I must flee this mob, or my demise is certain. My feet drag through the thick mud like anchors on the seafloor. The edge of a blade rips into my hip, scraping against the bone. The grating pain splits through me, almost collapsing my legs. Finally, I burst past the last man, breaking free of the swarm of blood-thirsty Sigurdians. The forest’s edge is but a hair's breadth away.

  Heavy, panting breaths. A raging storm. The pounding feet of a desperate, injured man. Nothing drowns out the distant screams. The trees await me, inviting me to escape into the scrub, but instead I look back toward the camp. It’s been torn apart. Sigurdian bastards shed the blood of my sworn brothers. I cannot flee. Not now, not from this fight. I face a mass of blue coated men charging together, dragging themselves in pursuit of me. The stench of death is sucked into my lungs as I draw deep, hefty breaths. Steady. I let it all clear away for just an instant. Fighting alone, against this many men. I stare down the void, feeling the pain of my wounds growing. I will not survive. Father’s final charge flashes through my mind. If you watch me now, I’ll make you proud. Gods, give me strength!

  Steady. My fury will destroy these cowards. Steady, I pounce into the crowd, slashing at every soldier I can reach. I kick a man, sending him stumbling back into the crowd as I tear at my wounds. Parry, counter, kill. I rip my sword across somebody’s face. The body falls, screaming and clutching at the disfigured flesh. Another takes his place, stepping over him as though it was nothing more than an obstacle. We trade blows. His blade slides across my shoulder, mine across his stomach. Somewhere in the camp, my armour sits unused. It would have served me well. I feel the blood dripping from my patches shredded skin. My arms and legs grow evermore shaky. I charge forward with my shield, into the swordsman I’d kicked, before he gathers his footing. A wooden sword hilt crunches into my face, sending a blunt shattering through my nose and snapping my head sideways. Dazed, I stumble backward. My eyes water and I can hardly see anything through the powerful rain. Sword after sword clash against my shield, battering the refuge behind which I hide. The downpour of water and blades seems eternal.

  Through the blur, a spear shoots forward. It slices through my cheek as I narrowly move to safety. Attached to the spear is a demonic mountain of spikes and metal. Spines protrude from its shoulders and elbows, and a black plume waves high above its slim helmet. In the dark of night, through the thick rain, I cannot recognise any flesh below the Knight’s metal shell. I’m forced to question whether this dark thing holds a man within, or something far worse.

  Distracted for but a moment, suddenly multiple blades are flying toward me. I jump backward trying to survive but I’m not moving fast enough to avoid these attacks anymore. A blade rips a deep wound into my upper arm, almost crippling it. My movements are slowing dramatically. I attempt to parry the next slash, barely moving his blade from its target. Another hole is cut into my blood soaked, linen shirt as the weapon scratches across my belly. An arrow drives into the swordsman as he’s about to strike at me again. A young voice shouts something franticly, though I can’t make it out. My squire, Ivar, stands further in the camp, straining to draw a long-bow. The dark Knight turns his attention to the boy, marching tirelessly toward him.

  A sharp pain cuts through my shoulder. I shriek in agony as the blade twists into my flesh, before yanking itself free. I stagger forward, struggling to muster some attack. The soldier seems to relish my pain and lets me linger at my feet. No longer striking to kill, he shoves me to the ground. The cold sludge covers my face and swallows my shield. I’m crippled by pain as I dig into myself, searching for some strength. Despite this torment, this bloodless, disabled state of being, I must stand.

  I drag myself forward, shaking in a layer of thick mud. I must stand. A knee holds below me. As does a second. One foot into the blood-soaked soil. I must stand. Pieces of bone crack in my hip, chunks of flesh tear inside my wounds. Blood drips from every bit of damage. I wrap my fingers around my sword hilt and push off it to rise again, and I stand.

  The lone Sigurdian waits, amused with my struggle. He approaches, dragging his sword through the mud, assuming victory. His sword lifts into the air, ready to finish me. I’ve barely the strength to stop my sword falling from my fingers. As the moment his strike arr
ives, an unnoticed arrow plunges into the space below his arm, piercing his lung. He coughs, splattering blood. I thrust my blade into his chest and he falls backward, gasping for air.

  Ivar screams for mercy. The Sigurdian demon hurdles forward, driving his spear through the boy’s chest and lifting him off his feet with the strike, before slamming him back into the ground. A plated boot holds the boy still as the warrior draws his broad sword with his off hand. Ivar’s terrified howls echo through the rain. The hulking Sigurdian adds his other hand to the mighty sword’s handle, lifting it over his head. The blade cuts into the ground, cleanly separating the boys head from his body. The demon’s attention snaps to me, unnaturally fastening to my exact place. My legs are rotten trees, threatening to crumble below as I watch. Beginning with one fragile step, I drag the broken mess that I am through the mud, and toward the dark Knight. This will be the end.

  As I try to slash at a gap under his helmet, his sword meets mine, knocking it away effortlessly as though he was shewing a fly. I attack again, thrusting at his throat. The Knight moves sideward before I near even his breath, barely partaking in this duel. With both hands, I summon all my might to cut downward onto his arm. With still only a single hand controlling the massive blade, the Knight meets my strike, pinning it in the air. I press against his sword, with a burst of determination drawn from the abyss. I flood every vain and fibre of my body with pure torment. Like black lightning, he grabs the forearm of my off hand. Crushing it within his grip, he lifts it high into the air. My feet lose the ground and my arm feels like it’s going to tear in half. My blade sweeps upward to meet the joint of his arm’s plates. The sword bounces from my grip as it clangs into his arm, leaving not even a scratch. With a flash of moonlight, he releases me, by hacking through my shoulder, completely severing my arm.

  The last of my senses fade. The earth engulfs my face as I sink into the deep sludge. I cough, choking on the mud, drowning in it. One eye sits above the surface and I draw in one last image of the world. A blinding flash lights the camp. A booming, CRACK, echoes through the fading darkness of my mind.

  Dim orange light. A wooden roof above me. I stretch the knots in my neck as I force my gaze downward. A withered old man, with a pointy grey beard, sits hunched forward, tampering with countless bottles and vials sprawled out across a table at the far side of the room.

  “Father?” I cough, barely uttering the word.

  “Oh good,” a croaky voice mumbles. “I thought my potion hadn’t taken effect.” I feel the fatigue of a thousand-year’s battle, a cutting pain and a devouring hunger. My very bones cry out in agony. I’ve not yet passed from this realm.

  “Water.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The bearded man stands, fetching a jug from the small table beside the straw bed, in which I lay. His wrinkled hands move carefully, protruding from his dark green robe, as he fills a mug and then moves it to my mouth. The water scratches its way through the desert that is my throat. “I’m Miskunn,” the old man utters.

  “Where am I?” I ask, dragging out the words.

  “You’re safe, nothing else need concern you.” He stops, pondering something. “Rest. You’re in a bad way. Somebody has a job for you boy or you’d have not lived to see the light of day.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  Miskunn glances away, then moves back to his table of potions, before answering, “your steed carried your battered body into town. I thought you were dead, until you mumbled something about your Uncle.”

  “My Uncle?”

  “The ordeal you’ve lived through should have killed you, it would have killed most men. It’s no surprise your mind wasn’t with you. Is it with you now lord?”

  “Don’t insult me!” I protest.

  “You are lord Jormungand though?” He pauses. “I heard of your father’s death. He was a true hero to the end. The Sigurdians have turned against not just the king, but your whole bloodline. A troop of blue soldiers marched in with the sundown at their backs. They’ve already carried a dozen men away. Only five have returned, and those few will be scarred for the rest of their days. They know you’re here, and they demand your head.”

  “This should do,” he says, lifting a murky bottle. “I’ve mixed together some remedial herbs and a numbing root, you’ll need it if you’re to mend that shoulder.” A flood of memory overcomes me. I cannot be crippled. I lift my hand across my chest and it comes to rest on the crevice of a freshly severed limb. It pains me to touch, but it pains me far greater trying to look forward into a future where I’m no more useful than a fragmented sword.

  “Don’t let it weigh on your mind boy, or you’ll go mad.” Chilled raindrops still splash against my arm. It can’t be gone. This is a dream. Some horrid nightmare.

  “Keep still, you need to rest,” Miskunn says as I swallow the last of the foul potion.

  Miskunn chuckles to himself, “it’s no fruity wine I’m sure, but you need it.” He returns the bottle to the set of odd shapes atop the far table.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two nights, soon to be three.” The gods have forsaken me. “Milord, you fought valiantly," he says, lightly smiling for some reason.

  “I’m nobodies lord.”

  Through the fire of my wounds, I sit up and place my feet on the cold wooden floor.

  “A smart man would let his wounds heal before he returns to battle.”

  “I must leave. The Sigurdians have to pay,” I say, hesitant to stand.

  “On foot, Nortka is many days away, and we’re in the enemy’s land now.”

  “My horse, where is it?”

  “In the stable, across the street, I’ll be keeping it though.”

  “I’ll need it to pass through the Sigurdian patrols?” I say, questioning his intentions. “Where are we healer? What town is this?”

  “OK Jormungand. This is Risna.”

  “Risna!” I shout, crippling myself from the burst of tension. “I was on the Salt Path, hardly a day from Grey Castle.”

  “I first lay eyes on you while walking the south road, I can’t say anymore for certain. If you are truly foolish enough to go out there, wounded and surrounded, you’ll need some help.”

  “I’ll ride west, surely I can pass through the forest unnoticed.”

  “A ride like that is far too rough, you’d die before you found your way out. Let me keep your horse, it’s a fine steed and I can sell it for many coins. It can serve as my payment. After all, I’m risking my life to help you and proper medical supplies aren’t easy to come by.” An ambitious, and greedy, agreement but I’m in no position to negotiate.

  “I understand. What are these supplies you have for me?”

  “Clothes, food and medicine. You’ve many serious wounds, do you have knowledge of healing?”

  “Nothing more than any other soldier.”

  "Wait there," he says, leaving his chair and disappearing into another room.

  Miskunn carries a dilapidated old travel bag as he returns to sight.

  “These roots here, the grey ones,” he moves to the array of plants hanging from a string nailed into the wall, “these are the root of Golden Tow. Eating these will numb out your sense of taste but more importantly, your body.”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll need something to coat the wounds with as well, correct?” I ask, remembering times past when healers had tended to the wounded.

  “Observant. A splash of this should keep it from rotting,” Miskunn holds an oval bottle of dark red liquid.

  “Wine?”

  “Mixed with a plant, yes.” He packs a pouch of the grey roots, and the bottle of liquid, into my bag. “Wash your wounds every second night.” He sits the bag beside me. “None of this matters if you can’t stand though.” I sit forward, then attempt to stand up. My legs, not yet returned to their strength, collapse as I place my weight onto them. The wooden floor quickly greets my face, as though it was an old friend. Agony consumes me again. Miskunn bends over as
he begins to help me up.

  “No! Leave me be!” I’ll stand alone or fall.

  I lean against the bed, breathing deeply and preparing to force myself up. I must drive onward, even through the pain. I begin to push with all the force I can muster, grunting and groaning as my muscles rip apart. I slowly rise, lifting the bolder of weight my body seems to bear. After wobbling, and shaking, my trembling legs take hold below me. Lightning pierces through my wounds, my entire body stings.

  “You’re as tough as the fables say,” Miskunn says stroking his beard as he watches me. “You’ll need some new clothes.” He points toward some farmers clothes hanging by the door, my sword rests in its sheath just below the outfit.

  “You’ll need an escort to pass the Sigurdian front,” he begins to explain as I struggle to move into the clothes he’s given me. “They’re more concerned with advancing toward the capital then securing the land they already have, but you can’t travel alone in your state. There are two bounty hunters in town, they’re heading west and this blockade will surely not hold them for much longer.” With the garments on, I strap my sword to the new belt. “You would be wise to accompany them.” This sword was crafted on my father’s orders when I reached sixteen years of age. I’d honed the edge to near perfection the day before we were attacked. It’s barely useable now, chipped and dulled like a jagged rock. “Jormungand, chew some Golden Tow before you leave. Any manner of things can happen once you step outside.”