Bad Blood Part 1-3

[Lexmus]

Here is a story for your perusal. It about 30k, but I'll post it up in pieces (maybe one a week) so your eyes don't bleed with a huge post.

There is a history behind the writing of the story, but I don't want to set it out here - it might put off potential readers - although I'll let on where it comes from (if no one guesses) if anyone is interested.

Any comments most welcome, good or bad, I can take it.

Prologue


‘Your king is dead, his army scattered.’

Hegrik grunted in reply. His head pounded. The wound on the side of his head still bled: he could feel the blood trickling behind his ear and down his neck. His limbs ached with fatigue. Battle, he thought, was for the young.

‘Just tell me where they are.’ The speaker paced the tight confines of the tent. Noises filtered through the animal skin walls: the clatter of soldiers marching; the snort of passing horses and the creak of wagons; and above it all, the agonised cries of injured men.

‘I promise to treat them well. Tell me their whereabouts and end the bloodshed.’

Hegrik snorted his derision. He stood in the centre of the tent, arms folded across his chest, watching the other man as he paced back and forth. ‘Will you treat them as you treated your own king?’ he asked.

The speaker halted. He was a steel eyed, wild haired warrior, armoured in leather and bronze. The heavy pelt of a cave bear hung from his shoulders. After a pause, he spoke: ‘Gonfriek was a weakling.’

‘Who you swore to protect,’ Hegrik retorted.

The warrior swatted the comment away with his hand and returned to his pacing.

‘You swore an oath before the Gods,’ Hegrik continued, ‘I was there, Diem, I remember your words. You knelt before the king in the sacred circle and spoke the words. Now you wear the king’s cloak, and where is the king? Where is our brother?’

Diem whirled towards Hegrik. ‘He is in the ground,’ he shouted. ‘Dead, by my hand.’ Spittle flew from his lips and dribbled into his beard. ‘He begged at the end, begged and mewed like a simple-minded fool. King? He was no king.’ He threw his head back and spread his arms wide. ‘I am king,’ he roared. ‘Challenge me if you dare, I spit on your oaths.’ He stood for a long moment, arms spread and head flung back, body shaking with suppressed fury. Slowly, he relaxed, lowered his arms and raised his head.

Hegrik felt sick. He had hoped to talk his brother into calling off the hunt, had hoped to appeal to his humanity, to strike a deal that would send the young queen and her son into exile. He could see now there would be no talking, no exile, and no deal.

‘I’ll find them,’ Diem said softly. ‘My men will rip this land apart; they will dismantle every hovel, house, farm and fort until the witch and her bastard are found. The people will suffer. The longer it takes the greater their suffering will be. You can halt it, Hegrik. Just tell me where they are.’

‘The people will fight,’ Hegrik said firmly, but he knew the words were hollow. The army was destroyed and the people defeated, there would be little resistance.

‘Brother,’ Diem said softly, ‘think of your wife, your son. I’ll guarantee their safety, but only if you give me the information.’

‘My son lives?’ Hegrik smiled despite the situation. He had thought him dead, killed when the shield wall buckled. His last sight of the battle - before the blow to his head had felled him - had been his son surrounded by a mass of enemy spearmen.

Diem’s eyebrows furrowed as he glared at his brother. ‘He will die, Hegrik,’ Diem continued. ‘My men will butcher him when they catch the queen. I can order otherwise.’

Hegrik shook his head and laughed. ‘I think not.’ He looked into Diem’s eyes and saw the first stirring of fear. ‘He will come for you, brother. You do not have the power to stop him. You know that don’t you. I see it in your eyes.’

‘Be silent, my patience is wearing thin,’ Diem growled.

Hegrik laughed again. ‘He could be out there now, in the darkness. Waiting.’

‘Be quiet.’

‘Why, are you listening for stealthy footfalls?’

‘Silence!’ Diem’s hand flashed out.

Hegrik saw the glimmer of bronze and swayed backwards. Searing pain lanced through his throat and the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth. He clutched at his neck, feeling warm liquid flow between his fingers. Then the strength drained from his limbs and he collapsed to the floor. It was cold and hard. There was no breath now, just cloying liquid death. The sound of the sea crashed in his ears, a roaring that increased to drown out all sound. He managed to smile one last time. Then the roaring crashed over him and swept him away.

Diem stood above the corpse, his face red with rage. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees and bent across the body, tears clouding his eyes.

‘Brother, I am sorry. Forgive me.’ Great sobs wracked his frame, and he lay for a long while as the body beneath him cooled.

The sound of a horn, signalling the new dawn, cut through his grief. He sat up and wiped the tears from his face with his cloak. The horn sounded again. Gently he reached out and closed his brother’s eyes. ‘I am sorry, Heg,’ he whispered, ‘you deserved better. You never understood though, and it is better this way.’ Slowly he stood. ‘Morr’s blessings go with you, brother.’ He spun away from the corpse, moved to the tent’s entrance and ducked out into the new dawn.

[Lexmus]

Part 1

Kriel, First Spearman of the Goroi, halted his mount and scanned the road ahead. It looked deserted. He removed his helm, happy to be free of its confines. A stiff breeze tugged at his long hair and he relished the feeling of the chill wind on his sweat-soaked head. It was peaceful here, away from the clamour of the fleeing tribesmen, and he felt a measure of peace for the first time in days. The battle had been exhilarating and terrifying, and ultimately humiliating. He pushed the thoughts away, unable to face them, they were too new, too raw, and they cut deeply into his pride as a warrior.

The road ahead ran parallel with the edge of the great forest, shadowing the wall of green northeast all the way to Wanhald. The land east of the road was wild: untamed grassland, rolling hills, hidden fens and dark, mystery-haunted woods.

He urged his horse forward, angling away from the trees on his left. The land rose gently for half a league and he was interested to see what the land beyond the rise held. He could have asked the scouts, but he wanted to lose himself in the wild landscape for a while, forget about the battle and the hoard of people clamouring hourly for his attention.

He placed his helm on his head and kicked his horse, Atrig, into a gallop. The animal was a fine beast, strong and powerful, but it had had little rest in the past couple of days and was blowing hard by the time it topped the rise. He halted the beast and leapt to the ground. Atrig snorted and nudged his shoulder. Patting the animal’s neck, he spoke softly: ‘You want to run, aye? Well save your strength my friend, there may be a long journey ahead.’

He dismounted and led the horse along the top of the rise. The land to the east fell away in gentle folds. A great expanse of hidden valleys and tree topped summits. Beyond it all, a dark line rimmed the eastern horizon: mountains, the great barrier standing between the land of men and the bestial creatures beyond.

For a while he strode along the spine of the rise, lost in thought. A flock of birds erupting from the distant tree line dragged his mind back to the present. They whirled high above the trees, their raucous cries faint on the wind. ‘Crows,’ he muttered, and spat to ward against the ill omen. He scanned the tree line but could not discern what had put the birds to flight. He mounted his horse, glanced once more at the trees and turned back the way he had come.

Once back on the road, and heading south-west, he allowed the horse to trot. A cloud of dust hung above the road, marking the advance of the fleeing tribe; his tribe. It pained him to see the people fleeing their lands; it cut into his soul, a wound deeper than any mortal weapon could inflict. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been better to die in the battle, a glorious end rather than the ignominious one he could see looming ahead. The prospect of failure weighed him down, it felt as if a physical burden rested on his shoulders, and he feared they were not broad enough to carry it.

He curbed his horse and stared at the dust cloud. A thought sprang into his mind: he could ride away now, turn from the road and disappear into the wild, untamed land. The tribe would find someone else to follow, a suitable leader, somebody with a desire to lead, not a simple warrior who’d had the responsibility thrust upon him. It was a tempting prospect.

With a twitch of the reins, he turned the horse towards the dark smear of the distant mountains. The crows burst from the trees again, their cawing loud and harsh. Kriel glanced left. A riderless horse, a chestnut mare, its mane braided with white cord from which hung the tiny skulls of woodland animals, crashed through the undergrowth beneath the trees, sprang clear and continued its panicked flight east towards the top of the rise. Kriel recognised the horse. He turned his mount towards the trees and kicked it into a run. Atrig surged forward, eager. The crows wheeled and squawked overhead.

A man, wearing the green and brown chequered cloak of the Goroi, stumbled from the trees, pursued by two horsemen. The man cut back, dodged past one of the mounted men, but the other horseman sawed on his mount’s reins, cut across his path and chopped down with the bronze sword he carried. The man collapsed, his skull clove in two.

Kriel dragged his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back and let out the undulating war cry of the Goroi. He crashed between the motionless horsemen. His sword took the first in the neck, slicing through muscle and bone in a spray of blood. He swung at the other horseman, but the man blocked the attack, and the momentum of his charge carried him past. He dragged on the reins, hauling his horse about.

The horsemen were warriors, the wolf cloaks and red painted faces marking them as Baroloi tribesmen from the lands to the North. Kriel had no idea what they were doing here.

The Baroloi tribesman sneered and charged. Kriel thumped his heels into his mount’s side and the animal leapt forward.

The two animals crashed together. Kriel ducked a wild cut aimed at his head and lanced his own sword into his opponents face. The blade struck the man’s cheek, scraped across the bone and slid up into his eye. He screamed and tried to pull away, blood streaming from the ruined socket. Kriel struck again, hammering the blade through the man’s leather skullcap and into his skull. The horse reared and bolted, toppling the man to the ground.

Kriel ignored the fallen warrior. The crows were wheeling overhead, squawking. He scanned the tree line for other enemies, and then moved to the body of the fallen runner. It was Grethin, a gruff man who said little, but he was a fine scout and a reliable warrior. Kriel thought back to the last winter; the snows had been heavy and four of his cattle had become separated from the herd. Grethin had helped him track the wayward animals and return them to the safety of the herd. He had done it freely, asking for no reward. His death hammered home to Kriel the responsibility he now carried. How many more men would he have to send to their death before the tribe was safe? Doubt gnawed at his confidence: could he even lead the tribe to safety?

Thrashing in the forest undergrowth interrupted his thoughts. A moment later, more Baroloi horsemen spilled from the trees to the north. They were laughing, but their good humour evaporated as they noticed the scene of slaughter. With a roar of fury, the band of horsemen charged. Kriel wheeled his horse away from the charging band and fled for his life.

Kriel bent low over Atrig’s neck as he urged the horse on. He could hear the whoops of the pursing tribesmen, and the pounding of their horses’ hooves. Atrig was blowing hard, his strength fading. Kriel risked a glanced backward; the band was gaining on him. The ground ahead rose gently, but he knew the road on the other side of the rise’s apex dropped sharply and twisted to the right, cutting through the edge of the forest. He had noticed deer trails earlier - when travelling in the opposite direction at a more sedate pace. If he could get beyond the rise, he thought, he might be able to flee along one of the paths without the Baloroi spotting him. At the very least, the trail would force his pursuers to follow in file.

Dust kicked up by Atrig’s hooves clogged his nostrils and robbed the moisture from his throat. It stung his eyes and left a billowing cloud in his wake.

At the top of the rise Atrig stumbled, losing his footing on the loose ground. Kriel cried out as he crashed to the ground with the falling animal, just managing to throw himself clear before the horse crushed him. He hit the ground hard. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he lost the grip on his sword. Dust swirled about him. Momentarily stunned by the pain, he could do nothing. The sound of horses swirled about him. Struggling to rise, he crawled to his dropped sword determined to die with the blade in his hand. Horses sped past and it took him several heartbeats to realise where they were going. He stood and looked North. A troop of horsemen, green and brown chequered cloaks trailing in the wind, thundered towards the approaching Baroloi. He whooped with joy, for leading them, iron sword held aloft, was Kon.

The two bands of horsemen slammed together. Horses reared, swords and spears thudded into flesh and crashed on shields. Animals whinnied, men screamed and fought and died. In the middle of the melee, like a rock standing proud against the battering waves of a tempest, Kon fought with deadly efficiency, his iron sword a blur of grey among the bright streaks of the Baroloi bronze.

His pain forgotten, Kriel gripped his sword two handed and rushed to join the fray.

The outnumbered Goroi had surprised the Baroloi, and led by Kon, they fought with unparallel fierceness. Kon hacked and cut, felling an enemy warrior with almost every blow, while Teufal, Kon’s huge black horse, snapped at the enemy warriors with a ferocity that equalled its master’s attacks.

Kriel reached the battle just as the Baroloi broke and ran. There were only six Baroloi left, and one, fleeing in panic, broke free of the melee and thundered south. He saw Kriel, alone and un-mounted, and decided to ride him down as a last act of defiance. He angled his horse towards Kriel, and charged.

Kriel waited. Just before the horse smashed into him he skipped aside and swung his sword at the horse’s head. The blade smashed into the beast’s mouth. The horse swerved aside and reared. Kriel rushed forward, throwing his weight against the animal’s side. Pain flared in his bruised shoulder and he cursed his stupidity, but the horse, off balance, toppled to the ground. The rider panicked and tried to remain on the horse. It hit the ground hard and rolled, crushing the man. He screamed. The horse struggled to stand, righted itself and then bolted.

Kriel approached the fallen rider. He was a young man, barely more than sixteen summers old. He had straw-coloured hair and the soft down of a youth above his top lip. The lad coughed, bright flecks of blood spotted his lips. Kriel kneeled next to the young man. ‘My sword,’ the boy said. His hand fluttering weakly in the dry soil. ‘I can’t see. Why is it so dark?’

Kriel waved his hand before the boys face. His eyes did not flicker.

‘I lost my sword; do not tell my father. I wanted to be brave, but-’ Coughing interrupted the boys words and more blood appeared on his lips.

‘Here, take this,’ Kriel said, placing his sword in the boys hand.

The lad smiled. ‘Did I do well father?’

‘Yes son, you did very well.’

The boy smiled, then his head lolled, his hand went limp and the sword slipped from his grasp.

Kriel picked up his sword and stood. The fight was over, the Baloroi were dead or had fled. He walked among the bodies strewn across the dry grass; three were Goroi, the other dozen were Baloroi.

‘I thought you would be happy, Kriel. It was a timely rescue, was it not?’

Kriel turned toward the speaker and smiled. ‘I am glad to see you, Kon,’ he said. ‘You have my thanks. Although, I thought you were dead.’

Kon laughed, then stepped forward and embraced Kriel in a crushing hug. ‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ Kon stepped back, his face serious. ‘These are hard times, but do not lose heart. We are not beaten yet.’

Kriel looked at Kon and shuddered inwardly. He was an imposing figure. A head taller than Kriel, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. It was easy to forget he was only eighteen. His hair was long, shaggy and black, his face broad and flat. But it was his eyes that held the power. They were dark, the iris almost the same shade as the pupil giving the effect they were one. Only in bright light could the difference be discerned. They were cold eyes, wise beyond their years, and they unsettled Kriel.

‘How did you escape the battle?’ Kriel asked, dropping his gaze to Kon’s stomach. ‘That spear… I thought you were dead! I tried to reach you, but you were surrounded.’ The image of Kon during the last moments of the battle flashed into his mind. A great mound of enemy dead lay about him, but he was surrounded, and for every man he cut down another stepped forward. Then he had twisted and slipped on the blood soaked ground. A spearman had rushed in and rammed his weapon into Kon’s back, the head had punched out of his stomach in a spray of blood. Kon had killed the spearman with a sweeping backhand. Then the battle lines had swept Kriel away from the scene. He had spent the rest of the battle trying to stop the Goroi flight becoming a rout and thoughts of rescuing Kon had slipped from his mind..

Kon patted his stomach. ‘It was but a flesh wound. Do not worry, I am a fast healer.’

‘I did try, Kon. If I had known you were alive I would have fought on.’

‘It is past. You did what was right, Kriel. I am alive, and your tribe lives to fight another day.’ He clapped Kriel on the back. ‘Enough of this for now. There are plans we need to speak of, and here is not the place. I also need to speak with my mother.’ His face took on a solemn expression. ‘She is well?’

Kriel nodded. ‘Well enough; She is with her sister.’

Kon smiled. ‘You have done well, Kriel.’ He moved away and mounted his horse.

Kriel looked at the dead bodies sprawled around him, at the crows circling low overhead, and wondered why it did not feel like it.

[Iron Wolf]

enjoying the story so far =] well told

[Lanista]

massive potential. this is really great stuff, man.

Cheers

Russ

[wild_ice]

Really good stuff!

[Huntsekker]

I agree. Great stuff!

[slayer]

excellent

[silmarien]

Very enjoyable.. when is the next bit??

[Lexmus]

Part 2


The evening sky was clear, the air warm with the fading heat of the day. Beneath the trees the shadows were lengthening, the radiant greens of the summer forest fading as the sun slipped from the sky. Tiana watched the shadows swell, noting the way the darkness expanded, absorbing the bright colours, muting and merging them together until there was nothing but dull and uninspiring grey. Soon, she thought, the grey would be gone as well, and everything would be shrouded in black.

The baby cradled in her arms shifted in his sleep. She pulled the blanket tighter about his tiny body and gently rocked him.

Tears pricked her eyes. Three days ago she had been a queen, her newborn son the future; now, all she had known was dust and ash, and the future looked bleak.

She wiped the tears away, determined not to cry again. Her husband was dead, but the tears were not for him. There had never been any love between them, it had been a union born of politics: the aging King of the Goroi lacked an heir, and her father, Fenrus, King of the Asoborns, lacked warhorses. She looked at the babe in her arms. Eighty horses was the price the King paid for him. She smiled; he was worth a thousand times that number.

A group of children ran past laughing, the sticks in their hands pretend swords. They stopped to mount an assault on an unseen foe before carrying their battle onto the wide road at the forest’s edge. Tiana watched them play, acutely aware that they would grow to one day carry real swords - as would her son. The thought saddened her. It was an undeniable fact, though, that the strong prospered while the weak suffered. She was determined her son would grow to be strong; he would be a power, but not in the mould of the cruel and malicious tribal leaders that controlled the people at present, he would be something different, something new.

If they survived, she thought. The tribe had to survive first, and her son along with them.

***

Kriel stood at the edge of the forest watching the sky darken. No clouds marred the sky and the first stars twinkled in the growing darkness. He could already pick out the shape of the Hunter, bow in hand, and the menacing form of the Dragon. Both were portentous shapes: the Hunter was said to be lucky, aiding lost travellers, while the Dragon, with its baleful red eye, was associated with bad luck and curses.

He traced the full outline of the Hunter with his finger and said a silent prayer, asking the heavenly figure to guide the Goroi to safety.

The tribe had settled for the night in the forest’s margin. The weary travellers gathered in family groups around cook-fires and hastily built shelters. Warriors patrolled the edge of the encampment. News had arrived earlier of the massacre at the Goroi settlement of Four Pines. Diem’s warriors had attacked the settlement and killed everyone. They had not even spared the children. The act made no sense to Kriel.

The Goroi warriors had clamoured for revenge, wanting to ride out and face Diem’s army again. Kriel had scoffed at the notion, asking why the gods would give the Goroi victory now, when they failed to grant it a couple of days ago. Kon had backed him and the warriors had relented - for now.

The crescent of the Chaos moon, Morrslieb, crept above the dark line of the distant mountains, its multi-hued face half shrouded in darkness. He shivered despite the warmth of the night. Why kill everyone? he thought. Diem wanted to expand his Styrigen lands north into Goroi territory: there had been a battle, Diem had won and most of the Goroi had fled north, forsaking their land south of the Dwarf road. Those that remained would travel north in the coming months and rejoin the tribe, others would stay and integrate into the Styrigen; it was the Tribes’ way. They raided one another and sometimes, when populations increased, they looked to expand their lands. But killing was reserved for the battlefield - warrior against warrior- attacking the people remaining on the land was unheard of.

The huge form of Kon, carrying an earthenware jug, loomed out of the darkness. ‘Beautiful, is it not?’ he said, nodding towards the rising moon. He offered the jug to Kriel.

Kriel accepted the jug. ‘It is peaceful, but that moon is never good to look on,’ he replied. He raised the jug to his mouth and drank deeply. The liquid seared its way to his belly. He coughed and handed the jug back. ‘Did you speak to your mother?’

Kon nodded. ‘I think she already knew.’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot explain it, they have been married for thirty years, they have a bond… Had a bond,’ he corrected himself.
Kriel nodded. Kon had confirmed King Seska was dead, as was Hegrik. Both had died in the battle. Kon had carried the news to his mother and her sister, the young queen. ‘I am sorry for your loss, Kon. He was a good man.’

‘Thank you, Kriel. I know he liked you. “An old head on young shoulders,” is what he always said. He thought I should try to be more like you.’

Kriel laughed. ‘More like me?’

‘He always said I was too rash, that I acted with my heart and not my head. Well my heart told me to mount my horse and go and kill my uncle.’ He tipped the jug to his mouth and drank deeply.

‘But you didn’t,’ Kriel pointed out.

‘No, I didn’t.’ Kon grimaced. ‘There is nothing in this life I would have liked more. Inside I’m burning with rage, but it would have been foolhardy. For once, I let my head rule. I have been thinking. Planning.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Finally, I listen to my father.’

Kriel took the jug and gulped another mouthful of the fiery spirit. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Teutogen traders. It’s fierce stuff, aye?’

‘Good, though.’ Kriel handed back the jug. ‘So, Kon, what is the plan? Where do we go from here?’

Kon turned to look at Kriel. His face was pale in the wan light, his eyes lost in dark pools of shadow cast by his thick, jutting brows. At that moment, lit by the eerie light of the cursed moon, Kriel thought the face looked unnatural; a fearsome, inhuman spectral hunter from mans primeval past. He almost stepped back.

‘What is wrong?’ Kon asked.

Kriel shook his head and looked away. ‘I think this drink is stronger than my normal fare.’

Kon chuckled. ‘You never were a great drinker. Walk with me, it will clear your head and I can tell you of my idea.’

The two warriors moved out of the forest, crossed the road and strolled up the slopping ground beyond. They exchanged pleasantries with two spear-carrying sentries and continued towards the top of the rise. When they were well beyond the guards Kon stopped. He sat down and stared at the stars shinning brightly overhead. Kriel eased himself down beside the huge warrior.

‘This last turn of events troubles me, Kriel. Why would Diem slaughter the Goroi at Four Pines?’

‘Madness?’ Kriel offered.

‘Aye, I expect he is mad, in a way, but it still makes no sense. The scouts say he burned the settlement to the ground. I have only been there once, but it looked productive, why capture the place and then destroy it? And why kill everyone? The tribes have never done that, it is bestial, our ancestors crossed the mountains to escape the beasts and monsters, have we not striven to distance ourselves from such base acts?’

Kriel nodded. ‘Always, it is part of what makes us human.’

‘Diems actions are puzzling.’ Kon placed the jug on the ground. ‘He murdered my father. Can you believe that? Killed his own brother.’

The comment was unexpected and Kriel found himself wondering if he had heard Kon correctly. ‘Murdered?’ he asked, ‘I thought he died during the battle.’

Kon’s voice was very low and very cold. ‘He was taken alive. Diem killed him when he would not tell the whereabouts of the queen and her child.’

Kriel felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I had a dream,’ Kon growled. ‘A vision, I saw it all.’

‘And you believe this… vision?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we must keep the queen from him.’

‘Aye, and her son. This is why I want you to lead the tribe to the Old Tower.

Kriel stared aghast, and when he answered, he could not keep the horror from his voice. ‘Are you serious?’

Kon nodded. ‘Diem will press us from the south, and it looks as if the Baroloi are aiding him. They will close in from the north. There is nowhere to go. The Tower is a stronghold, you can hold it against a force ten times your number.’

‘The tribe will not go there, Kon, it is a place of ill omen. The spirits of the ancients haunt the ruins. Our souls will be forfeit.’ Kriel shook his head. ‘It is madness.’

‘Hunam tells me the spirits can be banished.’

‘And you believe him?’ Kriel could not believe what he was hearing. The Tower was shrouded in mystery. An ancient fortress built on a jutting spur of rock deep within the forest. In some tales giants constructed it, in others powerful wizards, one thing was constant in all the stories: the Tower was haunted. No tribe had ever successfully settled within its walls, death and misfortune had befallen all who had tried.

‘There is no alternative, Kriel. You must take the tribe there or perish.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Are you not first spearman!’

‘Yes, but I am no leader.’

‘And I am?’ Kon laughed. ‘You forget, Kriel, you were a warrior when I was soiling my nightclothes. You are Goroi, what am I?’ He held up his hand to stop Kriel’s reply. ‘I live with the Goroi, and I am happy to be counted among you, but my father was Styrigen and my mother Asoborn; the Goroi are a proud people, they will want to be led by one of their own. No one else is suited.’

Kriel knew he spoke the truth, but did not want to accept the responsibility. He certainly did not want to lead the tribe to the Old Tower. What good could possibly come from such a venture?

He craned his neck to look at the stars, picking out a myriad of shapes among the darkness. The Dragon caught his eye and a thought sprang unbidden into his mind: was Kon trying to trick him? He wanted to dismiss it, but Kon’s face, illuminated by the cursed moon, slipped into his thoughts and he shuddered. He glanced at Kon. The young man’s face looked normal, even in the moonlight. Kriel felt instantly guilty for the thought. Kon was courageous and honourable, and had always acted in accordance with the tribe’s laws. He dismissed his misgivings, Kon deserved better. ‘Are you coming to the Tower?’ he asked.

Kon stood. He offered his hand and hauled Kriel to his feet. ‘No, my path lies along a different road. The Goroi cannot defeat Diem and the Baloroi. You can hold them, for a while, but ultimately you will need aid.’

‘And you are going to get it?’

‘Aye, I’ll look to my mother’s people. I am of royal blood, it must count for something.’

‘And if it does not?’

‘I’ll make it,’ Kon said forcefully. ‘I will come Kriel; I give you my word. And when Diem’s army is broken, I will hunt the dog down and rip his heart out.’

Both men began to walk back towards the trees, the glow of a dozen cook-fires glimmered within the forest.

‘Can I rely on Hunam?’ Kriel asked. ‘I do not trust magic, Kon, it is unpredictable.’

‘I share your feelings, but you can trust him, believe me on this.’

Mannslieb, the second moon, had risen, its white face stark against the dark sky. The smaller cursed moon had gone, disappearing below the horizon on its erratic path across the heavens. The two warriors walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, and vanished beneath the trees.

***

A cold wind whipped across the hilltop, scattering burning embers from the funeral pyre. Tongues of flame stabbed skyward, bathing the gathered warriors in lurid red light. Shadows cast by the light of the flames danced about the men. King Diem raised the drinking horn towards the fire. ‘For you brother,’ he said, then drank deeply. Much of the mead spilled down his chin, soaking his beard and leather vest. He drained the liquid and tossed the empty drinking vessel towards the fire, then looked to the clear night sky and howled. The gathered warriors echoed his action, the hilltop singing with lupine calls. Repeatedly Diem and the men howled; a rousing call for the Gods, they would hear, and thus know that a great warrior had come among them. Diem howled again, pouring all the emotion he could muster into the call, and then fell silent. Slowly the men ceased their calling and, except for the crackling of the fire and the eerie call of the wind, silence settled over the hilltop.

Diem turned away from the flames and walked slowly down the hill. His thoughts were melancholy, his brother’s death hanging heavy on his heart. All the Tribes believed the Gods abhorred a kin slayer, and he could not shake the feeling a curse had settled on him. This morning he had found a dead sparrow on the ground outside his tent, everyone agreed it was a bad omen. This grand ceremony, a rite usually reserved for kings, was a small token of his regret. Wherever Hegrik now resided, Diem hoped he had seen the flames and forgave him.

The warriors’ camp sprawled at the base of the hill: animal hide tents and wooden frames covered with turf clustered about a dozen huge fire-pits. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the stench of horses, cattle and sheep. Children ran between the fire-pits, playing games and fighting, while the women cooked and talked.

Diem threaded his way through the camp towards his tent. Two dogs fighting over a haunch of discarded meat growled menacingly as the king passed. He kicked out at the animals, sending one of the dogs yelping into the darkness, the other slunk away with the meat in its jaws. Somewhere in the camp a woman sang a lament for the dead, her voice high and sweet. Two men, circled by a group of cheering warriors, women and children, wrestled. Diem silently cursed. He had forbidden the women and children from following their men, but many had ignored him, and yet more arrived everyday. At first he had tried to send them away, but most of the men did not want to leave their wives behind unprotected while they made war and had refused to march further into Goroi lands alone.

His tent loomed out of the darkness. It was the largest in the settlement, made from the hide of two-dozen of the Brigundian’s prized black and white cattle. A boar roasted on the flames of a fire-pit before the tent’s entrance. Diem nodded to the guards, ignored the slaves tending the fire and ducked into the tent. Two torches lit the interior with a weak, fluttering light. Smoke lay heavy in the air as it drifted lazily to the smoke hole in the top of the tent.

‘You are wasting time here,’ someone said from the shadows within the tent, the voice low and sibilant.

Diem spun about, his hand reaching for his sword. He relaxed and snorted when he realised who had spoken. A man clothed in tattered animal skins and carrying a twisted wooden staff stepped forward. He was short, round-shouldered and heavyset. A black beard hid much of his face, and his hair, spiked with cow dung, stood out from his head. ‘You should be pursuing the queen and not…’ the man pointed his staff towards the tent’s entrance and the revelry beyond, ‘be idling here.’

Diem shrugged. He moved to the pile of furs that served as his bed and slumped onto them. The man shuffled to the middle of the tent, his left foot was twisted and he walked with a pronounced limp. ‘Time is passing,’ the man continued, ‘soon it will be too late-’

‘Enough,’ Diem yelled, interrupting him. ‘You moan more than an old fishwife. There is time. The Goroi are running, but they are trapped between the Baloroi and us. Relax, Anbur, have a drink, eat, find yourself a woman.’ He grinned. ‘I can arrange for something else if women are not to your tastes.’

Anbur scowled and spat onto one of the torches to ward against the evil of Diem‘s words.

Diem held up his hands. ‘Fine, but I will complete the ceremony, I owe Heg that.’

‘I warned you not to kill him,’ Anbur hissed. ‘Did I not tell you there would be consequences if you did?’

‘He angered me,’ Diem growled. For a moment, the fires of rage burned in his eyes, then, as quickly as it had come, the rage faded. He shook his head. ‘I did not mean to kill him. A madness took me and…’ He pushed himself to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He remained silent for a minute, then he moved his hands and looked up at Anbur. ‘Am I cursed?’ he asked.

Anbur leant heavily on his staff and smiled. ‘Maybe, but I can help. The old Gods are fading, their powers waning. It is time to show your devotion to your new god.’

Diem slowly let his hands fall to his side. ‘How?’

‘Through strength. Through power. Through blood. If you show Him you are devoted to His way, He will grant you protection.’

Diem considered the words for a moment. ‘I have cattle and sheep, how many?’


Anbur shook his head. ‘It is a great boon you are asking for, this is not the simple price of victory, or a conquest you can make beneath your furs. It is the power of the old Gods that must be countered.’ He thumped his staff on the floor. ‘It calls for something more powerful than cows and sheep.’

‘What?’

‘You have prisoners?’

Diem shook his head. ‘Some slaves, pretty ones, the spoils of war, I allowed the rest to return to their homes under oath not to raise arms against me.’

‘Is that not weak?’

‘It is the way of the tribes, you know that. What else would you have me do?’

Anbur smiled, his rotten teeth showing through the tangle mass of his beard. ‘Be strong, my lord, through strength is the way to His light.’

Diem remained silent. The fear of a curse gnawed at his thoughts, but he was unsure. He could not, however, deny the power of his new god; it had given him victory, and power. But to do what Anbur suggested would be going against a fundamental law of the tribes. What would that make him?

Anbur seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘They are your enemy, weak and frail. The darkness is coming, King Diem, if not you, who will stand against it? My god is strong enough, but he needs to know you follow him, and only him.’

‘And if I prove I do?’

‘His protection is yours.’

Diem stood. He paced the confines of the tent, thinking. ‘The closest Goroi settlement is Four Pines. I have traded cattle there. We can be there in three hours.’

Anbur bowed. ‘A wise decision, lord.’

‘But first we honour my brother. Tomorrow we drink, then, and only then, we march to Four Pines.’

‘As you wish. I will prepare the incantations.’

Diem waved the comment away. ‘Leave me now, and send in the slave woman I saw outside. A man cannot live on mead alone.

Anbur bowed, limped to the doorway and ducked out into the night.

[finalfunk]

Wow...this is really good stuff. My hat is off to you!

[Lexmus]

Ok, been away for a while with no internet connection. Next part is here though. Enjoy!

Part 3

The day was hot, the sky cloudless and bright. Kriel, his muscles tight and his stomach loose, stalked nervously among the gathered warriors. He glanced up at the fortress perched ominously on the peak of the rocky hill. Its white walls shone in the noonday sunlight. They looked, he thought, as if the rock possessed a blinding luminescence all of its own. Beyond the shining curtain wall stood the tower: a finger of smooth black rock rising a hundred feet in the air.

Kriel threaded his way towards the tower. The men stood sweating under the hot sun with shields and spears ready, and behind them, gathered in a great mass stood the women and children, every one of them armed with a stout stick and wooden or metal plate. He pushed himself clear of the men. Twenty paces in front of him, at the base of the hill, a man stood on one leg. He was old, stick thin and clothed in dirty, ragged animal skins. Wispy white hair, like strands of cobweb, clung to the large dome of his head. His arms were raised skyward, and clutched in his right hand was a gnarled piece of wood the length of a man’s arm. The man hopped to his other leg and let out a keening cry. He spat towards the tower, turned sun-wise a full circle, lowered his arms, spat again, and then stamped his raised leg down. Kriel watched the magic ceremony with trepidation; like all tribes-people he feared and respected magic - it was after all, a gift directly from the Gods.

The wizard turned away from the hill and walked to Kriel. His face, like his clothing, was old and worn. Deep wrinkles scored his sun-darkened skin; a beard, thin and white like his hair, clung to his chin and dark hooded eyes sparkled with mischievous intellect. He halted before Kriel. ‘You can begin,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply he strolled away, the assembled warriors parting before him.

When the wizard had disappeared out of sight, Kriel raised his spear. A hush fell over the gathered people. He breathed deeply and butterflies flittered in his belly. Somewhere a child cried. He was scared. No tribe had ever successfully taken up residence in the Old Tower. Tales spoke of a curse: the ancient builders still haunted it and no one but they could live there. Hunam, the wizard, assured him the tale was not true, but to be sure, he had promised to perform a spell that would drive any spirits from the tower. Hunam had performed his part, now it was Kriel’s turn to do his.

One of the warriors moved from the crowd to stand by his left shoulder. Kriel glanced left, unsurprised to see the squat form of Gerun, the horse trainer. He was an old warrior, one of the few who had escaped the battle.

‘You think this is wise?’ Gerun asked flatly. He was short for a tribesman, with a plain, flat featured face, long dark hair and thick limbs.

Kriel lowered the spear. ‘We have no choice, there is nowhere else.’

Gerun sniffed. ‘Didn’t ask that.’

Kriel stared at the tower. It looked peaceful, strange, but peaceful, and he found it hard to believe any malevolent force could dwell in such a structure, so magnificent, so full of light. ‘I have to believe in Kon, we can trust the wizard.’

Gerun spat. ‘Never trust a wizard. Should all be burnt.’

Trusting the wizard was not to Kriel’s liking. However, his choices were few and none appeared to offer a better option than the tower. The responsibility had been thrust upon him and he hated it. He dropped the butt of the spear to the ground. ‘You think we should take our chance in the forest?’

Gerun shrugged. ‘No idea. I do not like the smell of this place, but it looks strong, we will last far longer behind those walls than we will in the forest once Diem catches us, with or without the ghosts. What about the queen? What does she say?’

‘She just wants her son to survive.’

Gerun shrugged again. ‘Better get on with it then. You want me to come with you?’

Kriel found himself staring at the white walls and the dark tower beyond. A shiver ran down his spine. He dragged his eyes away and looked at the Gerun. ‘No, I’ll lead. My responsibility.’ He raised his spear above his head.

Gerun returned to the gathered warriors behind him. Kriel sent a silent prayer to Ishernos and then brought his spear down, crashing the shaft into the face of his shield to produce a resounding thump. He walked slowly forward and repeated the action. The men behind copied him, and the hillside rang with the discordant noise of two hundred spears thumping against shields.

Kriel climbed the hillside towards the yawning wideness of the fortress’s gate. The hill was a large lump of rock thrusting up from the forest floor. Three of its sides were almost vertical, and thus impassable, the forth formed a steep slope of jagged rock. A road cut through the uneven surface, but gravel and dirt covered the road making the climb difficult. Kriel’s feet slipped on the loose stones and twice he had to use his hands to stop himself from falling. When he reached halfway, the women and children began banging their sticks against the plates they held. They shouted as well, adding their voices to the raucous noise.

As Kriel neared the gate, he glimpsed the wide, dark tunnel that fed through the wall into the courtyard beyond and he banged his shield with renewed vigour. If there were spirits still dwelling here, the noise, backed by Hunam’s spell, would surely drive them out.

He closed his eyes as he passed out of the sunlight into the cold, damp gateway tunnel. He half expected unseen forces to rip into him, but nothing happened. He relaxed, relieved to be out of the direct heat of the sun. A sudden breeze whispered through the tunnel, ruffling his hair and tugging on his cloak, but it died as swiftly as it had come. Warriors entered the tunnel, the thump of spears against shields echoing in the gloomy space.

Kriel pushed on, emerging into a wide courtyard of white stone. Low, white walled buildings surrounded the yard. He noticed a well, but his eyes were drawn to the huge oak tree that dominated the centre of the yard, its wide branches casting dappled shade across the white stone. More warriors filed through the gateway. Some stared open mouthed at the strange buildings, while others, fearful of the spirits, continued to hammer at their shields. The men spread out and soon the first women and children passed through the tunnel. Emboldened by numbers, the people thrashed wildly at their makeshift drums and entered the buildings.

Kriel moved between the buildings until he came to the wall, and climbed a broad stair that led to the ramparts. He gazed at the forest spread out before him, a great green blanket stretching as far as the eye could see. He ran a hand across the stone, marvelling at the smoothness of its finish, and wondered who would build such a magnificent structure and then abandon it. He knew of the dwarfs and their cities in the mountains, but he doubted their involvement in the fortress’s construction. It was too elegant; it spoke of finesse beyond that possessed by the dwarfs. Who, he did not know, but he silently thanked them for it, because no tribe could ever breach these walls. They were as different from the wooden fortifications the tribes used as an ant was from an eagle. He knew he could hold these walls, and his heart soared with the knowledge.

He stood for a while watching the last of the tribe climb the difficult path. Tiana, the queen, was among them, her son cradled gently in her arms. Beside her, clinging to her elbow for support was her sister, Hegrik’s wife. Shepherds drove a small flock of sheep up the path, another man goaded a shaggy-coated cow; other people clutched chickens or geese, and one aging women sat astride a weary plough horse. Kriel scowled at the livestock. There was no way to feed them inside the fortress; they would have to be released, or slaughtered. Yet another problem to overcome.

Gerun climbed the stairs, his spear shaft resting casually on his shoulder. He moved to stand next to Kriel. ‘Nice view,’ he said after a while.

Kriel nodded and said, ‘I expect the sunset will be glorious.’

‘Well, I am sorry to spoil it for you. There is a problem with the gates.’

Kriel sighed. ‘What?’

‘There is no locking bar or bracket.’

‘And the gates themselves, what condition are they in?’

Gerun rested his spear against the battlement and lifted the bottom of his leather jerkin to scratch his stomach. ‘Damn lice,’ he said. He continued to scratch vigorously as he spoke. ‘It is the strangest thing. The gates are solid, not a sign of rot or decay, but there is no way to bar them. Why build a fortress with no means to lock the gates?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kriel answered. ‘Can we brace them?’

Gerun, his lice hunt finished, retrieved his spear. ‘Yes. Some good strong spars should do it.’

‘Can you organise the work, Gerun? I have much to arrange and very little time. We must be ready before Diem arrives.’

‘Aye, I’ll do it right away.’ Gerun lifted his spear and rested it on his shoulder. He glanced at the cloudless sky. ‘Hot work though. I better check that well first.’

Kriel smiled. ‘Thank you, Gerun. I’ll not forget your help.’

The stocky warrior shrugged. ‘We are Goroi. We live together, we die together. All or none. What else is there!’ Gerun stomped down the steps leaving Kriel alone on the rampart.

Kriel pushed all his fears to the back of his mind, they would have to wait for another day; he had a defence to organise, but first, he needed to explore the castle and discover its secrets. He walked down the steps, passing from bright sunlight into shadow.

***

Kriel dropped the rope and raised his arms to ease the ache in his shoulders. Relieved of armour and weapons and stripped to the waist, he had spent the morning hauling timber from the tree line up the steep slope to the fortress. He moved to the well, hauled up the bucket and emptied the contents over his head. Eight huge trunks lay in the courtyard ready to brace the gates. Kriel dropped the bucket back into the well.

‘Hard work.’

Kriel turned from the well to face the speaker. Tiana stood before him. She wore a long dress of green wool, simple but elegant. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a ponytail with yellow coloured ribbon. Kriel noticed she looked tired, worried, but the dark rings around her eyes did nothing to mar her beauty. He nodded. ‘Aye, hard, but nothing worthwhile ever comes easy.’

‘And this is worthwhile?’ she asked, waving her hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole courtyard.

‘Survival?’

‘Is this survival? I’m not so sure, it feels more like a trap.’

Kriel offered her a smile. ‘Believe me, Tiana, if I thought there was another way I would not be here.’

‘And what of the curse?’

Kriel switched his gaze to the stream of women and children filing through the gateway. ‘It was an accident, nothing more.’

She followed his gaze. ‘They don’t think so.’

‘They are wrong,’ he growled. He stared at her for a moment and then sighed. He was on edge, had been since the death. An accident: children had been playing in the tower and one had fallen from the summit. Her death had ignited the fires of the Tribe’s superstition, fuelling their fears of the fortress. Kriel tried to assuage those fears earlier that morning, but his words had been ignored. Almost all of the women and children had decided to leave. ‘The women and children can leave,’ he continued calmly, ‘but the men are staying. This is where we make our stand.’

Tiana moved to the well and peered down. She remained silent as she stared into the inky darkness, then she spun around to face Kriel. ‘My son… he is my world now, his future is all that matters.’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘I need to know we are safe here.’

Kriel shrugged. ‘I can think of no safer place. A great host is coming and there will be a battle, but these walls are high and strong and the Goroi are the greatest warriors alive. We will hold this fortress and when Kon brings aid, we will crush Diem and avenge your husband’s death. Your son will be safe and, the Gods willing, will grow to become king.’ He knew as he spoke the words how hollow they sounded. Tiana’s face took on a pained look. For a moment Kriel thought she might cry, but then her face hardened and she asked, ‘and if I leave?’

‘I can’t protect you,’ he answered plainly. ‘I am releasing ten spearmen to help protect the people who are going into the forest. The rest will stay here. I hope Diem will concentrate his whole host on us; maybe it will give the people out there time to find somewhere to hide. I can’t be sure though.’

Tiana offered him a weak smile. ‘I believe you will do your best to protect me and my son, Kriel.’ She reached out and lightly touched his arm. ‘I just hope it is enough.’ She left him then, returning to the cold confines of the dark tower. Kriel watched her thread her way between the stream of departing people, conscious once again of the huge responsibility resting on his shoulders. The fate of an entire people.

A commotion in the gate tunnel dragged his attention away from the departing Tiana. He moved swiftly. Men were blocking the tunnel; he could see spear tips bristling in the gloom and hear raised voices. He pushed his way through the milling women and children, stopping behind a line of five spearmen blocking the gateway. A knot of men stood beyond the armed warriors. He recognised them instantly: outlaws and outcasts. They were a motley bunch: men of varying age, their long hair, deep shaggy beards and tattered clothing the only thing giving them a common appearance. Some carried the short hunting bow favoured by tribesman hunters, while most made do with staffs and long bladed hunting knives.

‘Silence,’ Kriel roared into the din. The men quietened. He eased his way through the line of spearmen. ‘What do you want here?’ he asked coldly.

A tall, skinny man with a scarred face, his left eye a milky white ball, shuffled forward. ‘Scarag,’ he said by way of introduction, prodding himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘Me and my men want sanctuary.’ His clothing was a dirty assortment of patchwork animal skins, and a ragged cloak of faded blue wool draped his back. Kriel’s eyes swept over him, noting the bow he held looked well maintained.

‘You are not welcome here, outcasts.’ Kriel spat the last word. ‘Your lives are forfeit; to even stand before true warriors means death.’

Scarag laughed. ‘You think any of that matters now? The red king is coming. You think he cares we are outcast or that you are not? My blood, your blood, it is all the same to him.’

Kriel stepped closer to Scarag. The outcasts stiffened and shuffled backwards a step; Scarag however, held his ground. ‘I should kill you,’ Kriel growled.

Scarag smiled. ‘Maybe you should, but what will that serve? My men are here and they are prepared to fight - for you.’

It was Kriel’s turn to laugh. ‘And what is the price you put on this… service?’

Scarag shuffled his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at the gathered outcasts before turning his face back to Kriel and answering: ‘We want to be men again.’

Kriel was taken aback. He had expected a price, gold or livestock, something that could be carried away when the fighting was over, he had not expected that. Scarag saw the look on his face and continued talking: ‘Death is coming, we want to die as tribesmen. We want to exist again, be people, not animals.’

Deit, a tall warrior with long dark moustaches and a baldhead moved to stand next to Kriel. ‘Kill them,’ he said. ‘They can’t be trusted.’ The other spearmen joined him, clamouring for death. The outcasts retreated a few paces, most drawing bronze bladed hunting knives.

Kriel ignored the shouts. He fixed his gaze to Scarag’s one good eye. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. When the men fell silent, he spoke: ‘I accept your offer.’ He raised his hands to silence the protests from his own men. ‘I will make you men again, but only when Diem is defeated. Each of you will swear an oath binding you to me. You will serve me, as men. You will fight as men and if need be, die as men. But only when that butcher is dead, will you once again be men. Any of you who do not agree can walk away now. Go back to your hovels, grub in the dirt like animals and I will not spare you another thought.’ He glared menacingly at the gathered men. ‘If you stay be sure, because if you break your oath I will put out your eyes, sever your tongue, cut off your hands and then send your crippled soul to wander the otherworld until the darkness takes you.’

The men around him were stunned to silence by the ferocity of his words. A few of the outcasts murmured. Kriel waited.

Scarag knelt, bowed his head and placed his bow at Kriel’s feet. ‘I accept,’ he said. When he looked up, tears shone bright in his one good eye.