The Warlock's Fortune: Act One Page 4

  Thick clouds roll over the sky again tonight, the breeze presses on my face and the moon faintly shines through the clouds. The town’s an old set of buildings, made of Red Horn wood, huddled together around the marketplace and a handful of outlying farms. The few newer shops and houses, built of normal lumber, stand out like a flower in Frost. I’ve been to Risna once before, as a squire for my father. He’d just won a team melee and was spending most of his prize as we returned home. It was the first time I drank wine.

  I skirt around the town square, guards are surely stationed there, and make my way toward the only tavern in town, the Soken. The searing burn of my wounds fades to a constant throbbing and gradually my slow, staggered limp eases into a normal stride, the Golden Tow must be taking effect. I’ll need to appear as battle ready as possible otherwise my words will be wasted on the mercenaries. I must reach Nortka, my Uncle will send the full might of his army to crush the blue bastards. They’ll all suffer as I do.

  As I turn onto the muddy, trodden path the Soken resides upon, I see two Sigurdian thugs pressing a farmer for information. I reach around to my sword, wrapping my fingers around the handle. My battered blade will be enough for two senseless Sigurdians. My heart pounds, as I begin to draw it, and my stomach churns. Frozen, I see the bodies of my men laying all around me. I'm back in the camp again, watching the slaughter. Suddenly a flash from above and a sword runs straight through my left arm, completely severing it. My blade drops back into its sheath as my arm and shoulder lock with pain. I collapse into the corner of a building, cursing at myself.

  I struggle to return to my feet as I watch the two Sigurdians walk away. The distraught woman holds her head in her hands as she weeps. I move over to her, after gathering my balance again.

  “Did they hurt you?” I ask.

  “The Sigurdians have taken everything from me. What’s the point in going on?”

  “They can’t hurt you now.”

  “I've not seen you before?” she says with curiosity as she wipes away her tears and looks to me.

  “My name is Ivar. I'm a…” I stutter, “I’m just a bounty hunter.”

  “Well there’s nothing for you here now Ivar. Sigurdians don’t do bounties,” she says, looking off into the distance. “All we can do now is pray the gods save us.”

  Flickering candle light dances around the rundown old tavern and the stink of ale consumes the air. The room is quiet, with only a half dozen people and no musician. Two peasants sit in isolation, with only the company of their drinks. A soldier clad in blue, sways in his chair, drunk out of his mind. His full suit of plated armour shines with the candlelight. Only a Captain wears such shiny armour. The drunk soldier doesn’t take notice of me and I can’t afford him revealing my identity. The bar maiden wanders toward the Sigurdian Captain and I focus my attention to the last two men. Both, dressed in armour, sit in the opposite corner, talking quietly. I’m sure these are the two bounty hunters the old man spoke of.

  After the bar maiden brings the Sigurdian another drink, she pays no more attention to any of us, lost in some book. I stroll toward the mercenary's corner, trying as best I can to show them no pain. They stop talking as I draw near. One is clad in a suit of black and silver armour, and the other in a thick leather torso piece fitted with grey metal plates on his chest and back. If I recall, the black and silver patterns, painted onto this hunter’s armour, are only worn by the Knights of Grey Castle. Why would a Knight of Grey castle be here, working bounties? Leaning on the table with a bottle in his hand, the Knight is clearly well into the evening’s drinks. The other man calmly lets his hand fall to his sword hilt as I sit beside them. His blue eyes lock onto me like I’m dinner and he hasn’t eaten in a week. I’m forced to consider, for just a moment, how far this pair is willing to go for their coins.

  “Evenin' friends,” I say, trying to sound more like a low born. “My names Ivar.”

  “Evening Ivar,” the watchful hunter says in a curious tone. “The name’s Fenrir, what brings you to our table?”

  “I’m told you two are bounty hunters,” I reply, while looking between the pair.

  “If you’ve got a job, don’t bother,” declares Fenrir, as he takes a swig of his ale. “We’re only staying in town for a couple nights.”

  “I’ll make it simple then. I want to get past the Sigurdians.”

  The Knight puts down his drink and looks at me for the first time, “You want to come with us?”

  “You pair are the only hunters in town, and these roads aren’t safe alone,” I respond, casting a glance to the drunk Sigurdian Captain. “I can pay you once I’m within capital walls.”

  “I suppose, not much is safe with all these blue bastards around.” Fenrir finishes the last of his cup and thinks for a minute. “I've had too many drinks for this. Tomorrow night we'll talk about pay.”

  Miskunn welcomed me back, into the safety of his cottage, for another night. Now, long after the old man began to snore and the evening chill rolled through the lodge, I once again lay in the bed, incapable of sleep. I hear their distant screams; the voices of my men echo through my head, as they would an empty hall. Images of soldiers, ripped apart, fill my mind. Ivar still screams to me, pleading that I save him. He could have run, he could have hidden but instead the boy died like a criminal under the executioner’s blade. The medicine I’d taken earlier begins to lose its effect, and gradually I feel the sting of my wounds return.

  Every little movement is pain. My muscles ache, as my flesh burns and my skin rips. I can’t stand this undying torture. The string of spare Golden Tow, Miskunn had shown me, rests only an arm’s reach away. How much would I need to consume to numb myself? How much would I need to pass out, or to die? I sit up, ignoring the agony as best I can, and begin to eat pieces of the grey root. The taste of dirt overwhelms my mouth as I chew a few bits into paste. I consume a handful, and then another, and another after that. The string is bare as I finish the third handful and my stomach begins to bubble and ache. My strength, and pain, diminish as I lay my head down again. With closed eyes, I let my mind drift away.

  A man screams, “We’re under attack!” and I snap to my feet. My head cracks as my face slams against the wooden floorboards. I spend a moment on the floor, recovering from the daze and remembering the reality of what I’ve become. Straining a little less than the day before, I drag myself up. Shadows are cast short and the sun already sits high in the sky as I realise the old man is nowhere to be found. I’d best stay in the safety of this cottage until nightfall, then I can meet the bounty hunters under the cloak of darkness.

  The day passes as though it were a startled rabbit, and quickly darkness has fallen. Sometime after the sun has descended below the horizon, I find myself chewing some more Golden Tow, trying to ease the pain. In hopes of not finding any Sigurdian guards along the way, I move from the sanctuary, and toward the tavern, as quickly as my broken body will let me. I quietly pass several roads as I follow the edge of town. The peasant woman from the night before appears in the corner of my eye. A figure consumed by shadow stands a few paces away from her, watching me. I avert my gaze from them as I walk onward, in suspense, waiting to find out whether I’ve been discovered.

  Still anxious about the earlier figure, I make the last turn toward the tavern. Shouting suddenly breaks out from the Soken, followed by a clash of metal. My heart races within my chest. My body resists me with every step, but I must push myself to charge into the tavern.

  Inside, four blue swordsmen and the Captain from the previous night, corner Fenrir and the Grey Knight. I draw my sword, knowing those two are my only hope of escaping this area, praying for the strength to fight. For just an instant, I feel the weight of my shield held in my other hand. My heart pounds away within my chest, as my body pleads me not to enter the fray. Sweat drips from my side as I approach behind the men. I shove my crude, jagged blade into a soldier’s back, paining me almost as much as him. The man falls to a knee, pulling the weapon from my w
eak grip. A familiar, deathly chill runs down my spine as another swordsman turns to slay me. I stumble down, the floor wobbling below me as if it were a wagon with loose wheels. I crawl backward, trying to escape. I can't stop him, I’m powerless to fight back. The soldier lifts his sword high into the air. I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything. I see death in his eyes and murder in his heart.

  Just as his sword descends toward me, his upper torso splits into two. The sword pierces the ground beside my head, almost shaving my jaw. Blood drips and sprays from his body as it falls. A bulky battle axe wrenches itself free from the mutilated body, revealing the monster wielding it. This beast, towering above me, nods at me with a grunt, like an angry bull. He turns and swings his axe with the might of a bear, almost cutting another soldier in half. The bounty hunters dance around their adversaries and quickly overcome the Sigurdian soldiers. The Captain, coated in his fancy armour, witnesses all of this and flees in terror. His armour jingles as he scrambles to escape. The Captain only makes it as far as the door before the beast's axe buries itself into his back, sending him flying out into the street. The animal, unhinged and bloodthirsty by nature, strides out after his axe, while the Sigurdian lays screaming in the night. Blood squirts into the air after the beast yanks his axe from the Captains back plate. He readies the weapon, then cleaves through the bastard’s head in a single chop.

  The man marches back into the room of bodies and destruction, sheaths the battle axe, then sits at the counter seemingly unfazed by the carnage.

  “Give me a bottle of your most expensive ale,” he demands from the bar maiden that still cowers in the corner.

  The Grey knight moves over to me, “my name’s Ein,” he says as he offers me a hand up. I accept the help and rise to my feet quickly.

  “It’s good to see you Ulfmaer, but I had that handled,” Fenrir laughs, as he runs a hand through his short brown hair. I walk over to the counter as well and sit a few chairs away from Ulfmaer, wondering how these three came about knowing each other. Ulfmaer inhales half a bottle of ale before he takes a breath of air again.

  “It didn’t look handled.” Ulfmaer finishes his bottle, spilling just as much as he drinks. “Damn ingrate blue bastards.”

  “Come brother, grab a couple more for the road and we’ll get moving.” As Fenrir speaks, the two suddenly appear alike. Ulfmaer is bigger, and worse kept, but they bear similar features.

  “Give me six more,” Ulfmaer barks to the terrified bar maiden.

  “Make it four, this stuff is expensive,” Fenrir protests. The maiden packs four bottles of the ale into a sack, then pauses.

  “Make it eight, wench,” Ulfmaer returns, after ripping the cork from a second bottle. The bar maiden hands him the sack filled with bottles and waits for payment as Ulfmaer walks outside. Fenrir reluctantly gives her a sizeable portion of his coin purse.

  “Something is watching over you friend.” Fenrir says with a grin as he moves past me, “Let’s get moving, more soldiers will be here soon.”

  We make camp in a small forest clearing outside town. A gentle breeze rolls through the trees as the forest hums with nocturnal life. I lean against a rotten, fallen tree, alongside Ein. Fenrir tends to our small fire and Ulfmaer sits against a boulder at the opposite side of the clearing.

  “Sharing tonight friend?” Ein asks as Ulfmaer draws a bottle from his bag. Ulfmaer stares emotionless at Ein while taking a few mouthfuls of his ale, before throwing him an unopened bottle.

  “I could use a drink too,” I say as I watch Ein open his new bottle of ale. Ulfmaer pulls out another bottle from the bag and throws it at me. The bottle bounces from my chest before I catch it just above the ground.

  “One for me too brother?” Fenrir asks.

  “Buy your own, runt,” Ulfmaer growls.

  “I haven’t seen you in thirteen years Ulfmaer. What reason could you have for being so angry with me?” Fenrir demands as he stands.

  “You bloody left me with them!” Ulfmaer shouts as he stands as well, “you thought they were bad to you, how do you think they treated me after you left! They worked me to the bone for four more years after you left!” he growls as spit flies from his mouth and Fenrir seems to puff up, “they blamed me, and when I needed my brother most, where were you?” He continues as he moves closer to Fenrir, “you said it was you and me against the world, where were you when the world fought back? Where were you!”

  “You should have come with me, you chose to stay!”

  “No, I stayed to protect you!” Ulfmaer shouts as he punches his brother in the face. Fenrir staggers backward, wiping the blood from the fresh cut on his lip. Fenrir slams his fist into his brother then ducks under a wild swing and drives has fist into through Ulfmaer’s jaw. Ein jumps to his feet, and intervenes, moving between the two large men. Both men pause for a moment before Ulfmaer throws Ein aside and tackles his brother, slamming into the ground with a mighty thud. Ulfmaer climbs atop his brother and smashes into his face. Fenrir grabs his wrist, trying to stop the beating. Ulfmaer struggles to overpower him for a moment then headbutts him instead. Fenrir’s nose cracks loudly and he is clearly dazed.

  “OK, enough,” Fenrir groans as blood drips from his nose. Ulfmaer rises, standing over his brother.

  “We aren't kids anymore,” Ulfmaer says as he offers him a hand. Fenrir bounces back to his feet and moves back over to his place against the tree as his face begins to swell. Ulfmaer takes his seat as well, after handing Fenrir a bottle.

  “You know,” Fenrir says as he wipes some blood from his face, “I didn't know what they would do to you.”

  “And you never will,” Ulfmaer hisses.

  “When did you get away?” Fenrir asks.

  “I left the day I grew too big, the day father was too old and mother, to weak.” Were these brothers once slaves? “Where’d you go when you left?” he asks Fenrir.

  “I tried to just keep going. I ended up in the south, where I met a bounty hunter named Rettr,” Fenrir explains, “I travelled with her for a time.”

  “You, with one arm. How did you end up working with Fenrir?” Ulfmaer asks as he transfers his gaze to me.

  “Just happened to be going the same way.”

  “What happened to your arm?” Ein enquires.

  “Soldiers took it.”

  “How’d you get away?” Fenrir adds.

  “I’ve still got business in this realm, I’m not dying just yet.”

  “What about you then?” Ulfmaer asks Ein, “that’s some fancy armour. What are you doing with Fenrir?” Fenrir turns his gaze to Ein who has just finished his bottle.

  “I stole this armour from a Knight. Now I’m just trying to earn a few coins,” Ein says after some thought. You can’t steal the armour of a Grey Castle Knight. He has business he’s not telling us about.

  Ulfmaer begins to laugh loudly, “aren’t we all.”

  Chapter 3: Wayward Warriors

  ~Ulfmaer~

  Birds sing tired old songs as the sun grows at the edge of the sky. Our fire has long since grown lifeless, passing an ashy scent into the air. I reach a hand over to where I’d left Morovig, so that she may help me to my feet.

  “Sun’s up wimps, time to get moving.” Fenrir and Ein begin to rise, clambering and clattering with their own metal. The cripple lays still though, mumbling in his sleep. I dust myself off and wedge my armor back into place. Fenrir moves toward the trees, probably to piss.

  Ivar leaps to his feet, as my brother is about to pass him, “we’re under attack!” he cries as he draws his worn blade. Fenrir readies himself and darts his eyes around the edges of the clearing. Ivar’s short sandy hair is dark with sweat and his shirt grows and shrinks as he rapidly gasps for air. Nothing appears from the trees and Ivar throws his sword to the ground.

  “It was. It must have,” he stutters, “It’s just the wind.”

  The air is thick. We trek onward through the damp heat, boiling in our own sweat. The day’s shadow has shrunk away. I take gul
ps of ale from my last bottle, hoping to drown the sun’s rays as we wander along.

  “Does anyone else see that?” Ein asks as he wriggles the unused armour tied to his back.

  “You can see it too? I thought my mind was playing tricks on me,” Ivar responds. I strain my eyes, searching the furthest chunks of road, as we come to a halt.

  “What are you lot going on about?”

  “A camp,” says Fenrir. “My guess is Sigurdians.”

  “Disease ridden mongrels,” Ivar growls.

  “If we wait until nightfall, we should be able to avoid them completely,” says Ein.

  “Why not slaughter them as they sleep?” asks Ivar.

  “I won’t cower from a few soldiers until sundown.”

  “It’ll be safer at night,” Fenrir objects quickly.

  “I’ll do it myself if you’re too scared.” I throw the empty bottle aside and push past Ein.

  A pair of guards stand on the road dressed in chainmail and tunics, growing to attention as they spot me.

  “Stop local,” one of the guards shouts to me in his shitty foreign accent, “drop the axe.”

  “Do you mean this axe?” I ask, drawing Morovig from her leather sheath. The second guard utters something in his own language.

  “Get down, now!” he shouts again as I draw closer. They both free their swords and ready themselves to fight. Morovig dances above my head before she rips through the little soldier’s defence, slicing into his chest. Blood spurts from the gaping wound left in his mail. The other’s attempt to slash me is quickly ruined as I slam my drakine plated arm into him, knocking his sword from his grip. The coward calls for help. My boot slams into the bastard’s back as he tries to flee, he thumps head first into the dirt. I leap forward, before the guard can scramble to his feet, and swing Morovig down into his torso. Bone and flesh crunch in the soldier’s spine. The guard shrieks and cries, clawing at the dirt with his legs dragging useless behind him. Morovig hushes the poor fool, by splitting his skull in two. The rest of the scum shout to each other, quickly grasping their weapons. Fenrir and the others have caught up to me now and we almost match the guards in number. Within a moment we’ll clash.