Warbringer - Chapter 3
Romaine stood at the stern of the ship, watching as the shores of Calafe retreated into the mist...
★★★★★ "Great start to a new series! Interesting characters and a unique storyline set in a world that begs to be explored or in this case survived. Definitely worth checking out!"
Centuries ago, the world fell.
From the ashes rose a terrible new species—the Tangata.
Now they wage war against the kingdoms of man. And humanity is losing.
Recruited straight from his academy, twenty-year-old Lukys hopes the frontier will make a soldier out of him. But Tangata are massing in the south, and the allied armies are desperate. They will do anything to halt the enemy advance—including sending untrained men and women into battle. Determined to survive, Lukys seeks aid from the only man who seems to care: Romaine, the last warrior of an extinct kingdom.
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Romaine stood at the stern of the ship, watching as the shores of Calafe retreated into the mist. It had been close for a time, racing through the fading light, seeking the ever-elusive waters of the Illmoor as the howls of the Tangata grew closer. Just their luck that more of the creatures had been in the area.
In the end, the river had come upon them suddenly, the twisted trees giving way to an open field that stretched along the riverbanks. Even then, it had been a nervous wait once they’d signalled the other side, listening to the Tangata coming ever closer.
Now as the mist rose around the ship, Romaine listened with satisfaction as the howls of the hunt fell silent. The creatures had reached the shore and discovered their quarry escaped. Turning from the bow, he shared a nod with the lieutenant. The last hours had rattled the man, but there was open relief on his face now.
The other scouts sat in silence around the galley, eyes distant, as though reliving some waking nightmare. They did not seem to notice the sailors moving about them. Romaine knew that look well, had seen it on the faces of half-a-hundred soldiers over the past decade. It was the look of the guilty, of a man who knew he had survived while others had fallen. But these men were strong; they would rise above their despair, and be better for it. More prepared to face the Tangata when next they came.
Long oars propelled the galley through the rushing waters, towards the unseen shores of Flumeer. The Illmoor stretched almost a mile wide in these parts. They’d emerged from the forest close to their rendezvous point, but even then, they’d been lucky the ship captain kept his crew alert. The torch the scouts lit for signalling was bright, but in the heavy mist it could have easily been missed by a less attentive captain.
Ignoring the crew, Romaine wandered towards the bow where the horses had been stowed in makeshift stalls. He had sequestered the woman in a nook behind, where the captain stored extra sailcloth and rope. There she was safely out from under the feet of the sailors as they went about their work. Boards creaked beneath his boots as he approached, and Romaine glimpsed movement in the shadows.
Moonlight caught on the amber eyes as she appeared from the darkness, almost feral with fear. Romaine raised his hands to show he was unarmed—he’d left his axe with the horses. He took another step closer and his shadow shifted, allowing a nearby torch to illuminate the woman’s face. This time she did not flinch away, though she cradled her injured arm to her chest. Romaine had placed it in a makeshift splint while they waited for the galley, but it would need the attention of a doctor when they reached safety.
“Who are you?” she whispered in that singsong voice of hers.
“Romaine,” he replied. “Of Calafe.”
Pursing her lips, the woman nodded. She lowered herself down onto one of the benches running along the side of the ship, but otherwise she did not respond.
Romaine raised an eyebrow. “It’s customary to offer a name in return.”
The woman stared at him for a long moment, and it seemed to Romaine she was weighing him up. Again, he wondered where she had come from, what she had been through to find herself alone in Tangata territory.
“Cara,” she said at last.
Romaine offered his best smile, though on his bearded face and in the flickering light, it might have been mistaken for a sneer. When Cara said nothing, he gestured to the bench attached to the other side of the ship.
“May I?”
Again the long stare, but finally she nodded, and Romaine sat with a groan. “Long ride,” he explained, then nodded to her splint. “How’s the arm? I’m sorry about before, about startling you.”
As though his words had reminded her of the injury, Cara cradled the arm to her chest once more. “I fell…” she said, and for a moment her eyes took on a haunted look. “I’ve never fallen before.” Then she shook her head, her expression turning blank as she looked at him. “Where are we?”
“Crossing the Illmoor River, into Flumeer.”
“Flumeer!”
Instantly, the woman was on her feet, head whipping around, eyes wide with fright. But in her haste, the injured arm slammed against the side of the galley and whatever she might have said next turned into a moan. Romaine rose quickly as she staggered, ready to catch her if she lost consciousness again. The colour had drained from her face and she swayed on her feet, but eventually she slumped back to the bench.
“I can’t go to Flumeer,” she whispered, rocking on her haunches. “There’s…people there.”
“We must,” Romaine said softly. “It’s not safe where we found you, not anymore. Did your…people not receive the news? New Nihelm has fallen. Calafe belongs to the Tangata now.”
“New Nihelm?” Cara’s eyes were wide. She turned to face the mist. “Gone?”
“I’m sorry.” He paused, watching as the wind tugged her hair. He shivered, but in her bulky furs, Cara did not seem to notice the chill. “Your people…” He trailed off, then added, “You were alone when we found you.”
Cara nodded, facing him again. “I was lost…”
“Then your family, they’re still in the forest, still alive?”
Cara shook her head, and Romaine’s stomach twisted as his own grief called out its sympathy. He reached out a hand to pat her shoulder, but at the last moment she glimpsed the movement.
“Don’t touch me!”
Screaming, she flinched away, coming to her feet again in a rush. This time she tripped over a loose coil of rope and instead of fleeing, she went crashing to the ground. Another cry tore from her throat as she fell and she tried to roll away. Rope and cloth went with her and in a panic she thrashed, tangling them around her.
Romaine had come to his feet, but he dared not try to help her, lest he spur another outburst. Finally her terror seemed to subside. She slumped against the deck, gasping as though she had just climbed a mountain. A tremor followed, seeming to sweep her from head to toe, until her entire body was shaking.
“Are you…I’m sorry, are you okay?” he whispered, hardly daring to make a move towards her.
Cara’s eyes slid closed and she drew in a great breath. The tremors slowed, then ceased. Exhaling, she pushed herself up with her good hand. She gulped in another breath, as though fighting against some terrible pain, and slowly unravelled the rope and sail that had wrapped around her. Finally she managed to stand and sink back to her bench. There she pulled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes, a single tear streaking her cheek.
“I…I don’t like to be touched,” she croaked when she finally looked at him again.
Romaine nodded, though silently he wondered again what horrors the woman had endured alone in the wilds of Calafe.
“You killed them.” A frown crossed the woman’s brow as she looked at him. “The Tangata. How?”
“How?” he repeated, then shrugged, recalling the battle, the pounding in his ears, the rush of adrenaline. “It was not the first time.”
“You were so fast,” Cara murmured. “Almost as quick as them.”
“Not quite,” Romaine replied. He rubbed his chest where the male had struck him and winced. “But I knew what it was going to do.”
She nodded, as though what he’d said made perfect sense to her. Silence fell between them, and Romaine sat back, listening to the soft moaning of the ship, the lapping of water against the hull, the cursing of sailors at the oars. He tried to imagine himself back in the silent winter forests of his homeland, but instead he saw Flagers, lying dead in the blood-red snow.
His eyes snapped open and he rose. To his surprise, the mist had lifted and now the waters around the ship were clear. Ahead, burning torches lit the night and he sighed. That would be Fogmore, where he and the other scouts were barracked. It had been a sleepy town on the banks of the Illmoor once—until the war had come. Now it hosted the command post for the Flumeeren army.
They were closer than he’d thought, and inwardly Romaine suppressed a sigh. Seeing the stockade city only served to remind Romaine of his own loss. With Calafe fallen, he was now a man without a kingdom, forced to rely on the generosity of others for a place to stand, to sleep.
“Where are the trees?”
Romaine glanced sideways as Cara joined him on her feet. Her eyes were on the distant lights and it took him a moment to realise what she was talking about. In the darkness, it was difficult to see the barren hills around the city.
“Some were cut down to form the palisade, others for the new buildings needed to host the army. The rest…” He trailed off, thinking of the infernos that had lit the shores of the Illmoor from ocean to mountains. “They were burnt.”
“Why?”
“To keep the Tangata from slipping past our scouts,” Romaine replied.
“That’s horrible,” Cara murmured.
“Can you walk?”
She nodded, and turning, Romaine led her past the horse stalls. As they reached the main deck, the ship shuddered and the sound of wood crunching against gravel carried to their ears. He didn’t need to look over the side to know they’d reached the shore, though he noticed the wide-eyed look on Cara’s face as she spun around. Unbidden, a smile touched his lips.
“We’ve arrived,” he grunted.
The announcement finally seemed to shake his comrades from their stupor, and rising, they moved to free the horses from their stalls. Romaine made no move to help—the busy work would be good for them. He turned as footsteps announced the lieutenant’s approach, and he offered the man a nod, but his attention was focused on Romaine’s new ward.
“Awake at last, I see!” the lieutenant said in what he must have thought was a friendly tone. He offered a friendly bow. “Lieutenant Marco, at your service.”
Cara only stared at the man, lips clenched tight. The lieutenant turned to Romaine with a frown.
“Does she speak?” he asked.
Chuckling, Romaine clapped the man on the shoulder. “Not to you, apparently,” he said with a grin. Nearby, the sailors were raising the gangplank from where it had been sequestered beside the railing. The current had turned the ship side-on to the riverbank, and with a groan of steel hinges, the plank slammed down into muddy shore. “Come,” Romaine added. “We’d best get out of the way of these men. No doubt they’d like to return to the safety of the river before the night grows too old.”
Ignoring the lieutenant, he led Cara down the gangplank to the shore, then raised an eyebrow at the woman. The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips, but it faded as she looked ahead. Romaine could hardly blame her. Fogmore was anything but welcoming. The wooden palisade waited some two hundred yards from the river, though the ground sloped upwards from where they stood, so that the city seemed to loom above them.
Torches had been lit at regular intervals along the palisade, and the flickers of shadows revealed the guards on watch. Nothing could be seen of the city beyond, though the gates were already swinging open in preparation to admit the new arrivals. Once a gravel path had wound its way up the slope to the gates, but the constant passage of marching boots had turned it to a muddy, rutted mess.
“Welcome to…” Romaine sighed. “To my new home.”
Wrinkling her nose, Cara flashed him a glance. “You sure you wouldn’t rather the Tangata?”
Romaine blinked, then let out a snort. “They might yet convince me.”
Movement came from the gangplank as the lieutenant started down. Gesturing to the path, Romaine started off before the man could reach them. The thump of boots on wood picked up pace as the lieutenant sped up, and Romaine let out a sigh. The man caught them before they’d gone ten yards, puffing softly. It was difficult to move quickly on the muddy path. To Romaine’s relief, the lieutenant said nothing and they plodded on.
The other scouts overtook them when they were halfway. They waved from the backs of their horses and continued ahead, broad grins on their faces. Now that they had reached the safety of home, the guilt and fear had receded, replaced by joy at their own survival. Romaine clenched his jaw as he felt himself longing for the men’s innocence, for their hope and optimism. His had died long ago.
“Are you okay, lass?” the lieutenant asked as the last of the horses overtook them. “Sure you wouldn’t like a ride?”
Cara was managing better than either of them in the mud, though she must have been in pain from her arm. Romaine cursed inwardly that he had not made the offer sooner, but Cara only raised her eyebrows. The lieutenant shared a glance with Romaine, but he only shrugged. Shaking his head, the man returned his attention to the path.
Despite his sorrow at leaving his homeland once again, Romaine still felt a touch of relief at the sight of the city. Packed and chaotic as it was, he would at least be extended a hot meal and a bed. These days, he didn’t want for much more than that.
When they were still some fifty yards from the gates, Cara suddenly slowed. Romaine pulled alongside her as she glanced back, the fine features of her face twisting in a frown. For a moment, he thought she was having second thoughts about entering the city. Then her entire body went taut, and she opened her mouth to cry out.
Whooorl.
Romaine’s heart lurched as horns sounded from atop the palisade walls, drowning out Cara’s scream. Atop the walls, soldiers pointed down at them. No, past them—down at the distant river. Romaine followed their gestures, gaze travelling back to where their galley had landed.
The ship should have been pushing back from the shore by now, but it remained where they’d left it, sailors racing back and forth across the deck…
…No, not sailors.
Another howl sounded in the night, but this time it was not the Flumeeren trumpets.
Tangata!
Dozens of the creatures were swarming over the ship. Their clothes were soaked from the river waters and Romaine could hardly believe what he was seeing.
They had swum!
The sailors didn’t even have a chance to scream before the Tangata overtook them. In a matter of moments, their bodies lay scattered across the decks. A whoosh carried up the slope as a lantern was smashed against a railing, scattering flames across the wooden boards.
“Run!” Romaine bellowed.
Cold grey eyes turned after them as Romaine spun. Forgetting Cara’s affliction, he grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her up the path. A cry came from the woman and she tore herself loose, but whatever panic she felt, she channelled into movement. The lieutenant had already seen the danger and had taken off without a second thought for those behind.
Whooorl.
The horns sounded again, followed by the soft creak of hinges. Romaine’s eyes snapped to the gates, just thirty yards away now. Slowly, they began to swing closed.
Fear touched Romaine and he bellowed for them to wait. If the guards heard, they took no notice. The other scouts had already reached the safety of the town. Only the three of them remained outside.
Light burst from atop the palisade walls as bales of straw were set aflame and pushed over the side. Their glow swept down the slope, illuminating the way ahead. And what came behind.
Glancing over his shoulder, Romaine glimpsed shadows streaking up the hill towards them. Moving with incredible speed, the Tangata had already covered half the distance to the town. Another minute and they would be upon them. He set his eyes on the closing gates and pounded on.
A bowstring twanged overhead. Angry shouts followed—a superior reprimanding the archer for releasing his arrow early. The Tangata were still too far away. Even in his desperate state, Romaine appreciated the officer’s discipline in the face of the attack.
A dozen Tangata…where had they come from? Why now?
Moments later, a chorus of twangs lifted from the ramparts, and fifty arrows flashed past overhead. Romaine didn’t need to look back now to know how close the beasts were. Convention dictated a crossbow volley be fired at sixty yards. Ahead, the gates continued to close, the squeal of their hinges sounding their doom.
“Wait!” There was open terror in the lieutenant’s voice, but he should have saved the effort.
At least a dozen Tangata came behind them. If even one were to enter the city, the havoc it would wreak amongst the civilians would be terrible. The officer in charge of the watch could not take the risk—not solely for the lives of two men and an unknown woman.
Romaine cursed. He didn’t even have his axe. They were just ten yards away now, so close. But they weren’t going to make it.
Suddenly the gates stopped moving. A figure appeared in the gap—Romaine recognised one of their fellow scouts, waving frantically for them to hurry.
Then they were through, the gates slamming closed behind them. A thud followed just as the locking bar dropped into place, shaking the wooden boards. Howls chased after them, then the twang of arrows came from overhead as the archers fired again.
All sound from outside ceased.
Then the screaming began.
Panting, Romaine straightened to take stock of the situation. His fear deepened as he witnessed the chaos that had taken hold of the city. Men and women raced in all directions, some towards the ramparts, others in seemingly mindless circles.
Terror was spreading.
And the Tangata were at the walls.
“Someone get me my axe,” Romaine growled.
Lukys stood frozen as the trumpets sounded again. Not even the officers moved from where they stood, but all turned their faces to look southward. Darkness had fallen almost unnoticed; the torches lit around the square casting their orange light across the snow. A third call sounded from the direction of the river.
“To arms!”
Lukys never saw who gave the call, but with those two words, the peace was broken. Chaos descended on the square as others picked up the cry. The general’s words were proven true as men and women went racing from the nearby buildings, some dressed in chainmail and carrying swords or spears, others in the plain clothes of civilians. Many of these carried hatchets or long knives, a few had construction hammers, one a pitchfork.
Standing in the centre of the square, armed with their spears and protected by heavy chainmail, not one of the Perfugian recruits moved. It was as though a spell had been cast over them. All Lukys could hear in his mind were the general’s words.
Death, death, death.
It was like a prophecy, a chant rattling around his skull, demanding deliverance.
The Perfugian officers swung into their saddles, but they said nothing to their charges. Instead, they put heels to flesh and galloped from the square—heading north, not south. Lukys watched them go, mouth wide, his last trickle of hope fading to nothing. Their commanders had fled, had left them here to die.
Death, death, death.
Lukys’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked at the spear in his hands. He had carried it all this way, had worn the chainmail, but he had never used them. He stared at the spear now, willing himself to lift it, to shout a war cry and race to aid his fellows.
He couldn’t.
A moan came from his throat as he looked around, seeking help from someone, anyone. Dale stood nearby, but his face was pale, forehead beaded in sweat. His eyes were fixed to the ground and as Lukys watched, a shudder went through the man, as though he were on the verge of tears. Gone was the bravado of just a few hours earlier.
The Tangata had come, and they didn’t care whether your blood was noble or poor. They would kill you all the same.
Death, death, death.
A tremor shook Lukys as the first scream sounded over the blowing of horns. His eyes fixed in the direction of the river. The palisade was hidden by the nearby rooftops, yet it couldn’t be far, not if they could hear sounds of battle, of the dying…
Lukys’s gaze caught movement in the windows of the nearby houses. Faces peered out at them, an older woman with two young children, their eyes wide with terror. He swallowed, seeing others now, the old and young, the injured and the infirm. They stayed in their homes, unable to fight, only to wait and see who would prevail.
Lukys’s stomach twisted in a knot as he looked from them to the Perfugian recruits.
Cowards.
How could he and his comrades stand here, frozen in terror, while others bled for their freedom? What did it matter whether they were failures or heroes, when there were those here who fought with pitchforks? At least they had spears, at least they had armour.
A soft thud whispered across the square as Lukys dropped his pack. Almost unconsciously, he reached down and tore the half-helm from its strap and placed it on his head. Then he was stepping forward, mud splashing beneath his boots. The spear came up, its tip dropping in what Lukys approximated to be the correct position. Hairs rose on the back of his neck as he sensed the eyes of the other recruits on him, but Lukys ignored them.
Eyes fixed straight ahead, he walked through the ranks of his fellow Perfugians, towards the distant screams of battle.
Thud, thud, thud.
Lukys glanced around as the sound of objects striking earth came from behind him. Other recruits were moving forward now, spears held at the ready, determined. He glimpsed the man he’d knocked down earlier amongst them, and offered a nod. A woman stepped up alongside Lukys and they shared a glance. He saw a steely resolve in the hazel depths of her eyes, a determination to do her kingdom proud—whatever the bastard general might have said of them.
Movement came from all around now as the spell shattered. Like a wave breaking against the shore, the fifty recruits surged forward with a cry, racing to reinforce their fellows in the battle for humanity’s freedom.
Running down the muddy streets, Lukys’s heart soared. There was no time to think about what was to come, about strategy or logistics, only to charge, spear raised towards the enemy. The palisade came into view, the sloped earth leading up to makeshift ramparts packed with soldiers.
Lukys’s fear came rushing back.
The Tangata did not appear to be attacking this section of wall, but somehow that only made the fear worse. His guts turned to liquid as he listened to the sharp twang of bowstrings. Somewhere, men and women were screaming, but ahead a strange peace hung over the soldiers, the calm before the storm.
Lukys’s stride faltered and he slowed his pace, allowing several recruits to overtake him. But he didn’t allow himself to stop. If he stopped, he’d never be able to start moving again.
Soon the ground was rising beneath his feet. Lukys clenched his teeth and clutched his spear tighter as they approached the waiting soldiers. Unbidden, the recruits spread out along the wall, seeking areas where there was space for them to stand. Screams came from away to their right and Lukys craned his head. Even in his terror, he longed for a glimpse of the villainous Tangata.
Then he was standing atop the fortifications, the spiked palisade stretching up to his waist, a twenty-foot drop beyond. A barrel was burning nearby, casting light out across the ramparts, while below great bales of hay turned the river flats to red.
Ghosts moved amongst the flames.
Death, death, death.
The hairs on Lukys’s neck stood on end as he tried to track the creatures below. They were effervescent in the darkness: a flash of their eyes catching the light here, a flicker of shadows there, always moving. Bowstrings twanged along the wall, but Lukys sensed few would find their mark—not in this darkness, not with these creatures.
Taking a two-handed grip of his spear, he looked left and right. Soldiers wearing the red embroidered uniforms of Flumeer made up the bulk of the front ranks—few of the blue-clad Perfugians had been so bold as to step right to the edge.
Thwack.
Lukys gaped as just a few feet from where he stood, a man crumpled to the ground, head caved in from some unseen projectile. The helmet had done nothing to protect him. Other defenders cried out as the crack of rocks striking wood came from the palisade—then they were throwing themselves down. Lukys mimicked their actions, though his eyes were still fixed on the dead man. A rock the size of a fist lay on the ground beside him.
What The Fall am I doing here?
Standing amongst the soldiers of Flumeer, Lukys realised in that moment he had no business being on that wall, in that city, on the frontline. He had no idea what he was doing, no clue about how to fight, what to do when the Tangata came.
The pounding of rocks ceased as quickly as it had begun. Maybe the Tangata had run out of projectiles—or perhaps they were only waiting for fresh targets to present themselves. The Flumeerens must have thought the same, for they were slow to regain their feet.
Eventually, some of the bolder archers began to fire into the darkness again. Still crouched, spear clutched at his side, Lukys watched a woman draw back a bowstring, eyes fixed on some point down below…
Lukys blinked. The woman had vanished…no, not vanished—her body lay a yard from where she’d stood, neck snapped in two, eyes still staring at some distant point.
Something else took her place.
Lukys didn’t move, didn’t dare even breathe as finally he laid eyes upon the monster that haunted the dreams of every Perfugian child. It could have been human; indeed, there was no outward difference in its appearance. There was no disfiguration, no sharpened teeth or talons, as some of the legends claimed. Nothing other than eyes as grey as stones.
Those eyes swept the ranks of defenders surrounding it, and as one they drew back. The Tangata smiled.
Death, death, death.
The chant had become a cacophony in Lukys’s mind now, booming along to the racing of his heart. Fear lodged in his throat, suffocating him, robbing him of strength. The tip of his spear shook; he almost dropped it.
A howl shook the night.
And the soldiers of Flumeer charged.
Sword raised, a man leapt at the beast, steel point aimed for its throat. The Tangata wore no armour, carried no weapon that Lukys could see, but it moved far faster than its foe. It spun, and the soldier’s sword found only empty air. A hand flashed out and caught the soldier by the throat. Though he wore an iron bevor, the steel offered little protection against the strength of the Tangata. The creature wrenched its wrist, and then the man was dead.
Lukys’s stomach churned as blood sprayed across the mud, but the loss did not slow the man’s comrades. Screaming their rage, they struck at the creature, though it was already moving, evading their attempts to trap it, to drive their blades home. Lukys watched on from his knees, unable to find the courage to stand.
He had never understood until now. Sure, he had heard the tales, knew the stories, the legends of these creatures who had dared defy the Gods.
But no one in Perfugia truly understood.
He knew that now. If they did, all the might of their island nation would already be here, battling on to hold the line, to push back against the inhuman hordes.
The Tangata were no ordinary enemy, no human kingdom you could surrender to. The creature before him was mad, possessed by the magic its ancestors had stolen, utterly corrupted.
If the Tangata could not be stopped…
They were all going to die.
Lukys climbed to his feet, spear held out before him. A second Flumeeren soldier had already fallen. The creature swept up the man’s sword before others could converge on it, and a third man fell, head separated from his shoulders in a single swing. Growling, it continued forward.
Screams rent the air as Lukys watched the creature come, unable to move, to run, to do anything but wait for death to find him. It stalked across the rampart, dealing death with each step, and Lukys raised his spear, preparing for a final stand. But the soldiers of Flumeer were not finished yet.
A woman stepped between Lukys and the creature, bow in hand with arrow nocked. Before the creature could spot the danger, she loosed. A howl sounded in the night as her red-plumed arrow sprouted from the Tangata’s chest. It stumbled back, grey eyes showing a moment’s surprise. But the wound was not mortal, and with a roar, the beast drew back an arm and hurled the stolen sword.
There was a sickening thwack as the blade slammed into the woman’s chest. Thought fled Lukys’s mind as he dropped his spear and stepped forward to catch her. She sagged into his arms, the strength gone from her legs. The chainmail vest she wore had done nothing to save her, and staggering, Lukys lowered her carefully to the earthen ramparts.
Blood bubbled from her lips as she struggled to breathe. Desperately, Lukys tried to recall the teachings of the master doctor. But the sword embedded in the woman’s ribs was beyond anything he’d learnt in the academy. With a last sigh, her eyes slid closed and the harsh rattling of her breath faded to nothing.
Lukys sat back on his haunches. Around him, the world was on fire. Winds blew from across the river, catching in the hay below the walls and sending flaming strands swirling through the air. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils as he inhaled, and his throat burned. Terror robbed him of strength.
He drew on what final dredges of courage remained to him. Clasping at his fallen spear, he forced himself up—and found himself staring into the stony eyes of the beast.
It stood just a yard away, close enough that it could have reached out and snapped his neck at any moment. It didn't. Wrinkles creased its forehead as it watched him. The spear shook in Lukys’s hand as he realised this was his chance.
But even as he tightened his grip on the weapon, the Tangata tensed, its features closing over. A smile twisted its lips, revealing yellowed teeth.
Death, death, death.
Laughter sounded in Lukys’s ears and the beast raised a hand, gesturing him forward.
Screaming, Lukys leapt, spear held at the ready. He knew he could not win, that this was the end, but in that moment he didn’t care. All that mattered was the spear in his hands and the beast.
The tip of his spear flashed out, aimed clumsily for the creature’s stomach. The Tangata was quicker, its hand swiping down, catching his weapon by the haft and snapping it in two with a quick wrench. Lukys staggered back, half of his now useless weapon still clutched to his chest. The tip of Lukys’s spear clasped in one hand, the Tangata advanced.
A cry escaped Lukys as his boots failed to find purchase in the mud. He crashed to the ground, broken spear tumbling from his fingers. Mouth wide in terror, he looked up, expecting to see death descending upon him.
A warrior stood between Lukys and the Tangata, twin-bladed axe extended towards the beast. The weapon rippled in the firelight as it swept out. The Tangata leapt away, twisting from the path of the blade, but even with its superhuman speed, it could not avoid the blow completely.
A shriek rent the air as the axe sliced the creature’s thigh. Blood pulsed from the wound as it staggered. Lukys was surprised to see it bled red. Despite their distinctly human appearance, surely the monsters could not be the same within?
Pain contorted the Tangata’s face as it faced the axeman. Then a change seemed to come over the creature, a wave of pure rage sweeping away its agony. Its eyes flashed and it rushed forward—now in total silence.
The axeman did not retreat from its fury. He charged with a shout, words lost in the chaos, massive shoulders sending the axe flashing for the Tangata. Somehow, the creature seemed sluggish by comparison. Perhaps the wound had slowed it. Regardless, it realised its mistake too late, and with a sickening thud, the axe slammed into its shoulder, slicing through bone and sinew to bury itself in the beast’s chest.
An awful gurgling came from the Tangata as it struggled to step forward, to reach the enemy that had slain it. But not even these creatures could survive such a blow, and with a sharp whistle of departing air, it slumped to its knees and fell alongside Lukys.
The warrior towered over the beast. His shoulders heaved as blue eyes scanned the ramparts, seeking out signs of fresh danger. Another Tangata lay nearby, its body peppered with arrows and impaled by several spears. In the distance, the sounds of battle were fading, an eerie stillness coming over the night.
The battle was won.
Looking up at the massive axeman, Lukys could hardly believe he was alive. If not for the ferocious warrior, he wouldn’t be. Only now did he notice the man did not wear the familiar red of Flumeer, nor the blue of Perfugia. Instead, his chainmail had been woven through with the deepest green, remnant of the forest.
Calafe.
He hadn’t realised there were any Calafe warriors left. They had passed the refugee camps outside Mildeth, but it was said that the last of their soldiers had refused to leave their land, and had died on the shores of the Illmoor. What did this man fight for now, with his kingdom overcome?
“Need some help?”
Lukys started as the man spoke, dragging him from his thoughts. Seeing the hand the warrior was extending, he took it. His slender fingers were ingulfed by the warrior’s giant mitts and he was yanked to his feet. Lukys stumbled before righting himself, his gaze catching on the body of the Tangata once more. The blood had stopped flowing from the awful wound the man’s axe had left.
It almost killed me.
Before he could stop himself, Lukys was bent in two and retching in the mud.
Gentle laughter came from beside him. “First battle?”
Gasping, Lukys managed a nod.
“You’ll get used to it,” the warrior grunted.
With that, he took a hold of his axe. Placing a boot on the Tangata’s chest, he yanked the weapon free with a sickening squelch, then turned and walked away along the ramparts.
Lukys watched him go, a reply on his lips, though he couldn’t bring himself to say it. The warrior was wrong. He would never get used to this. He would never get the chance.
He’d be dead long before then.
Erika was sagging in the saddle by the time the walls of Mildeth finally came into view. The short winter days had made the journey hard, forcing her to wake in the darkness and ride until long after the sun had shrunk beneath the horizon. Blessedly, it was still high now; her five day journey would be at an end by nightfall.
Now her excitement began to rise as she contemplated what awaited her in Mildeth. They had all been expecting her to fail, every noble in the blasted court. Only the queen had shown faith, and even she had warned Erika that there would be no more expeditions should she return empty handed.
But this time, Erika had succeeded.
This time there would be no reprisals.
This time she would offer Queen Amina the true magic of the Gods.
She had spent the long journey intermittently dreaming of what might lie hidden in northern Calafe, and practicing with the power she now literally held in the palm of her hand. Not long after leaving the caverns, she had discovered the metal fibres had indeed fused to her flesh. It should have frightened her, but instead she found herself relieved the magic could not be taken away.
Each night she had practiced with it, trying to discover its secrets. She had experimented first with its ability to summon light. In her rush to escape the caverns, Erika hadn’t realised she’d forgotten the lantern until halfway to the exit. It was only then she’d noticed the magical glow that had followed her, seeping from her hand. Now she could summon not only light, but warmth at will by clenching her fist, though she found if she practiced too long, she grew fatigued.
She’d had less success replicating its more deadly nature. The magic seemed to have no impact on inanimate objects; the trees she’d practiced on hadn’t so much as shaken before her power. Erika hadn’t dared test it on anything living yet; she would have to trust it would work when needed.
The rolling hills fell behind Erika and the last of the snow with them, while the walls of Mildeth grew larger. Built of red sandstone, they rose from the land like a bloody scar, standing defiant against the wild green of the surrounding farmland. Joining the Queen’s Highway, Erika began to overtake wagons. Many were loaded with food goods, broad beans and cabbage and onions, late crops, the last to be harvested before the snows had started. Others were escorted by armed men, their contents hidden by heavy tarps. These would be from the mines, filled with gold or silver or other precious metals. Maybe even marble, cut from high in the mountains and conveyed to distant Mildeth to grow the ever-expanding citadel in the city’s centre.
Erika’s heart raced at the thought that one of those new apartments might soon be hers. Finally she would be granted the position in court she deserved. But her excitement was short-lived, as ascending the final hill before the city, she looked down at the plains surrounding Mildeth.
A mass of humanity crowded the earth beneath the walls. Here was the fate of the failed, all that remained of the ruin that was Calafe. Flumeeren guards stood at the gates, inspecting each wagon and barring entrance to those who lacked the proper papers. There were simply too many for the city to hold; already Mildeth was bursting at the seams.
And so they gathered without, women and children, the old and crippled and infirm, all waiting upon the queen’s mercy. Some had raised worn canvas tents, while others had gathered enough garbage and detritus to create lean-tos or makeshift buildings—though that was perhaps too strong a word for the pitiful structures they had erected.
The Calafe had never been builders. Though many spoke of the beauty of New Nihelm and Fort Agzor before they had fallen, most of its people were said to be nomads, surviving upon the fruits of the forests.
Only there were few forests in Flumeer. Those had given way long ago to farmland, a necessity to feed not only the growing population, but the ever-expanding army.
Raising her hood, Erika drew the cloak tighter around herself and rode on. After the assassination attempt in the caverns, she was wary of being recognised. Though she would be forced to show her papers to the guards, there was no need to shout her arrival to every watcher in the city.
She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as she entered the crowds, eager to avoid contact. A long line of wagons clogged the road ahead, waiting to be processed and checked, but alone on her horse, Erika was able to press forward unopposed. Even so, she felt the refugees pressing in, their desperate eyes upon her back. Clenching her fist, she summoned warmth to her gauntlet, drawing strength from the magic’s presence.
However, it could not keep the stench from her nostrils. Closer to the city, the refugees grew denser, bunching up against the walls in their desperation for shelter. Erika wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of another unpleasant smell. She didn’t need to ask what happened to their waste in such tight conditions.
Approaching the gates, she could no longer avoid setting eyes upon her poverty-stricken neighbours. They were everywhere, crowding onto the Queen’s Highway, pressing at the guards, the wagons. Images flashed before Erika’s eyes, of a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman wearing a thread-worn dress. Even the memory made her cheeks grow warm. Her past was like an anchor, ever seeking to drag her back to the poverty she and her mother had experienced when they’d first arrived in Flumeer…
The last wagon in line was being searched as Erika rode past. She didn’t spare the contents a glance. Ahead, the gates were open, though a company of soldiers stood at the ready should any of the human debris camped outside attempt to gain passage. They closed ranks at her approach and Erika pulled her horse to a stop before them.
She dismounted as one of the soldiers wearing the badge of a lieutenant pinned to his chest stepped towards her. “Papers, ma’am?”
“Erika, the Queen’s Archivist” she replied, reaching into her coat for the documents. As she did, her hand brushed the ancient map and a thrill of excitement touched her. Shaking it off, she offered her papers to the man. “I trust everything is in order,” she added, adopting an elevated tone.
The lieutenant cast a cursory glance over the papers, then back at her. He raised an eyebrow. “Long journey, ma’am?”
Erika’s cheeks warmed as she saw the judgement in his eyes. She’d hardly had time to find food on the long journey south, let alone bathe or purchase new clothes appropriate for her rank. In truth, she looked little better than the Calafe refugees. But the news she brought could not wait.
“We are at war, Lieutenant,” she answered curtly, anger washing away her embarrassment. “I come with urgent news for the queen.”
“Yes, I’m sure ancient history is littered with urgent news,” the man replied drolly. Erika balled her gauntleted hand into a fist, but after a moment he handed back the papers and stepped aside. “Go, though I suggest you bathe before entering the presence of Her Esteemed Majesty.”
Snatching back her papers, Erika flashed him a scowl, but the lieutenant was already returning to his men. Stepping back into the saddle, she directed her mare into the gate tunnel. Snickers came from the guards as they watched her go but she ignored them. Their insolence would not be forgotten. Soon she would be one of the elites, a noble of Flumeer. Then the lieutenant and his men would learn the error of their ways.
The shadows of the walls enclosed her as she entered the tunnel. She shivered in the sudden darkness, feeling the weight of stone looming overhead. The passage narrowed as she edged her horse around a corner designed to slow intruders, and in the black she felt herself losing control. Suddenly, she was back in the tunnels beneath the earth, in the realm of the Gods, and Sythe was creeping towards her, knife extended…
She exhaled hard, fighting for control. Ahead, the tunnel twisted again, a shimmer of light promising an exit. She pressed her heels to the mare and with a snort it broke into a trot.
A moment later she returned to the light. The nightmare banished, Erika pulled her mount to a stop and dragged in great lungfuls of air. Lifting her hand, she clenched and unclenched her gauntleted fist. Light danced upon the metal, though in full daylight it was difficult to pick the source. She knew, though…
Nightmares banished, Erika lowered her hand and continued her journey. There were still several more hours of daylight remaining, but the city was large and she intended to call upon the queen before the court retired for the day.
Beyond the gate tunnel, she found herself in a broad plaza with a dozen roads leading off from it. The buildings here were of the same red sandstone as the outer fortifications. They were squat and ugly things, reflecting the average Flumeeren’s mind for practicality over beauty.
Erika directed her horse down the central avenue, settling her hood back in place. The walls protected the streets of Mildeth from the worst of winter’s winds, but she was still wary of being recognised. Sythe might have died with her secrets, but returning without her assistants would be suspicious. And who knew where else the Gemahan king might have watchers?
Stones clicked beneath steel hooves as she made her way through the city. The streets were peaceful compared to the chaos beyond the city gates, the pavements clear of waste and detritus. Guards stood watch at intersections and citizens made their way through the grid-like streets with smiles on their faces. The occasional wagon rumbled by on the way to and from the docks.
The order restored calm to Erika’s soul, banishing the stress of the past week. This was where she belonged, standing shoulder to shoulder amidst the elite of society. Memories of her past were naught but a passing shadow on a sunny day.
It took her an hour to reach the citadel. She made only one stop on the way, a brief detour through a perfumery in which she was able to clean her face and augment the scent of a week spent on the road. This time she would approach the guards with more confidence, to avoid any further delays by men inflated by their own sense of power.
Yet when she turned the final corner to the citadel, she couldn’t help a fluttering in her stomach. The sight that greeted her would have intimidated anyone. Soldiers in gold-embossed breastplates and full-faced helms lined the street. Each was armed with shield and spear, with swords strapped to their waists for good measure. To the ignorant, they might have appeared as statues, decorations to bid guests welcome to the towering citadel beyond.
But Erika was anything but ignorant. Behind each of those impenetrable helmets was a veteran of a dozen battles. Soldiers did not earn a place amongst the warrior queen’s guard without proving their worth.
Wind whistled between the rooftops as Erika made her way between the silent men. Goosebumps lifted on her neck as she sensed the unseen eyes watching her, but not one of them moved. Silence hung over the street like a blanket, heavy, suffocating, until she wanted nothing more than to scream. She continued, her horse plodding slowly towards the palace gates.
Only there did movement finally come. As she stopped to dismount, she saw suddenly that soldiers had moved behind her, barring the path back down the street. For men in full-plate armour, they moved quickly, and with frightening silence.
“Archivist.”
One foot still in the stirrups, Erika spun towards the citadel, and almost ended up face-first in the dust. Thankfully she managed to get a hand on her saddle to steady herself before disaster struck, but too late to entirely save her dignity. Agitated, she finished dismounting and looked to the speaker.
“Your return was not expected for another week,” the man continued before Erika could get a word in. Wearing a silken doublet of Flumeeren scarlet, he stood with arms clasped behind his back and a look of carefully crafted indifference on his face. “The queen trusts you have not returned empty-handed…again.”
Erika’s mouth opened and then closed, her veins turning cold. His words cast her back to that last failure, when she had stood before the queen and her court and begged for one final chance. Most had called for her dismissal—or worse. The queen had been moved by her words, but she had implied another failure would require recourse.
I did not fail!
Clenching her gauntleted fist, Erika straightened and looked the queen’s emissary in the eye.
“Take me to Her Majesty, steward,” she commanded. “I bring news that will change the future of the war.”
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