Even Gods Must Fall (16 page)

“Indeed. I expect you to begin deployment immediately. Time is perilously short. Our enemies gather and converge as we speak. You have done well.”

Any concept of success failed to translate in her limited scope of reality. Months of constant mental fatigue drove her down. She was a hollow representation of what she’d once aspired to become. Maleela wasn’t quite broken, but knew that seminal moment wasn’t far off. She lacked the core of what she’d once been and needed to find a path of return.

Sensing her quandary, Amar Kit’han pressed his advantage. “You wish to find your father. To confront him for all of the wrongs cast upon you over the course of your abused life.”

“Yes,” she all but whispered.

Amar nodded. “That moment in time approaches. I sense Badron is nearing. If the gods decide to grant your vengeance will you swear fealty?”

She hesitated, suddenly unsure of her true motivations. Her father was bitter, venomous at his core but still responsible for her life. His consuming hatreds were often taken for granted in her mind. But was there basis? Maleela had been largely ignored over the years, shunned at best but never mistreated. Badron kept her away but never went over the top. Had this all been a fabrication in her mind? Months of carefully rehearsed plans and speeches dissolved in her mind.

“He is coming here?” she asked.

“Indeed, though not by means of his choosing,” Amar answered. “I will speak no more of this. Deploy your soldiers around the ruins and bring Thrask to me within the temple.”

She opened her mouth to speak as he dissolved back into the night, leaving naught but the taint of his vile presence in the air. Maleela felt anger swell within her blackening heart. Her trepidations evaporated as she regained convictions. Her father could wait. Amar Kit’han and his band of demons were her immediate targets. Once vengeance was slaked, she could focus on her dispossessed father.

“General Thrask! Move your forces into position around Arlevon Gale.”

A Life Best Lived

Boen grunted as he ripped his massive sword out of his latest victim’s chest. Blood and gore fountained, falling in puddles around his boots. The Gaimosian was covered in sweat. His muscles burned from excessive use without proper rest. He’d been on the run for so many hours time meant nothing. An endless stream of corpses traced his path across the wilds of Delranan. Bodies that never would have been this far north if not for the war. Not even a lifetime of combat and violence was enough to keep his great frame moving for much longer. Age and time had not been kind to him.

Vengeance Knights were rare. Their blood was slowly fading from the world’s gene pool. Perhaps it was for the best. Theirs was a horrifically violent path only a few could manage without breaking. Boen was over sixty. His body a mass of scar tissues and memories best left forgotten. His beard had filled out since joining Bahr on his foolhardy quest. His wrinkles had deepened. He began to feel the weight of his long years.

A dog barked in the distance. His scent had been picked up. Boen grunted and wiped his sword clean on the body and headed quickly for his horse. He’d already reduced enemy strength by more than a score but it wasn’t enough. Skaning had more resources at his disposal and Boen was running out of time. The mercenaries could feasibly keep him occupied for weeks, if not longer. He needed to find a way to force a decisive engagement in order to link back up with Bahr and the others.

“Damned dogs will track me down,” he grumbled as he climbed into the saddle a little slower than usual.

Fresh aches and pains jolted the length of his body, prompting him to wonder if he gained too much weight in his old age. Frowning, the Vengeance Knight forced the thought from his head as it only made him hungry. He didn’t recall the last time he’d had the opportunity to eat enough to fuel his massive frame. His horse buckled slightly as he settled into the saddle.

Boen leaned forward and pat him gently on the neck. “I know. I know. It will all be over soon. I figure two more days and nothing else matters. Let’s give these bastards a good show.”

As if bolstered, the horse snickered and stepped forward. Boen decided to follow the near empty streambed tracking east. The direction wouldn’t fool his trackers but it should give him enough time to confuse the dogs and get farther away. A thin layer of ice cracked and broke with each footstep. The sound was like thunder to his sensitive ears. Night was upon him and sound always carried louder on the cool winds of darkness.

Boen followed the stream for close to a half league before exiting the freezing waters on the south bank. Had he been forced to walk it he would have already been suffering with hypothermia or worse. Thankfully the water barely came up past his mount’s hooves. He wished there was another way, a way to spare his trusted companion of many adventures from nature’s torments, but speed was his best, only hope for survival. There was only so much his sword could accomplish before strength left him vulnerable to enemy blows.

Darkness deepened the longer he rode. Delranan was largely open plains of gently rolling hills and light forests, making his trek easy despite the winter conditions. Heavy cloud cover helped keep what little heat from the sun close to the ground. Boen often reached out to wipe some of the lather from his horse, an act of miniscule kindness not returned. While his horse may be worked up and overheating, Boen didn’t suffer in kind.

He was freezing. Sitting in the saddle, while muscularly tiring, did little to prevent the freezing temperatures from seeping through his cloak and into his bones. Having to wear his armor didn’t help matters but it was a fact he was forced to live with. The boiled leather concealed by wrought iron from the Dwarven smiths in the Bairn Hills was a luxury in personal combat that did little to keep him warm.

Boen suffered in silence, knowing it wouldn’t help his cause to complain. Such people often died from their ignorance as the solution to their problems passed them by. He was Gaimosian and in being so was meant to suffer. Whining didn’t solve problems. Action and quick thinking did. His mind continually war gamed as he pushed east. Theoretically he held the advantages. Alone and unencumbered by logistics or orders, Boen moved at will and in which direction he needed to take. His only concern was diverting enough of Skaning’s mercenaries to give Bahr time to reach Arlevon Gale in time to stop the dark gods.

Skaning didn’t have that luxury. His forces were all mercenary from southern or eastern kingdoms. Not a one was a native of Delranan. Their lack of knowledge concerning the terrain matched Boen’s, but whereas he was solo, they had to worry over staying together or coordinating with splinter units ranging across the area of operations. They also had a master to report to. Additional pressure from Skaning left the mercenaries open to minor mistakes that were beginning to cost them lives. Boen took full advantage of their handicaps as he conducted a campaign of lightning-fast raids and executions.

Mercenaries were strong in numbers, but cut off from reinforcements and fresh supplies, they became vulnerable to his particular style of warfare. All he needed to do was stay ahead and continue his guerilla-style assaults. Boen worried that his strength would give out long before he managed to kill all of his attackers or enough to force the others to retire. His enemies remained determined, forcing the Gaimosian to stay constantly on the move.

Thus far he’d been fortunate. None of his battles had resulted in any major wounds, though he suffered numerous small cuts and bruises. Boen struggled with the urge to stand his ground and fight. Doing so would only waste his life and delay the mercenaries for mere moments. If they were smart they’d have called for archers. Boen snorted, considering the concept almost cowardly. There was no honor in killing from distance. Gaimosians preferred the intimacy of close combat. There was satisfaction in watching stark realization enter the opponent’s eyes the moment he realizes he is doomed.

“Only I’m the one feeling doomed,” he grumbled under his breath.

Boen didn’t enjoy running. He much preferred a stand-up fight. Skaning’s mercenaries, keen to what they were facing, showed increased reluctance to engage him directly. As much as Boen enjoyed the reprieve, he couldn’t fall back on it. Sooner or later the enemy was going to grow bold and gain the upper hand. It was only a matter of time. The only way he was going to escape his current situation, one of his own making, was by making the enemy pay so bad they lost hope. He just didn’t know how.

Nothing he’d done thus far seemed to matter. He’d laid traps and ambushes for nearly twenty leagues. Bodies piled up in his wake yet still the mercenaries attacked. Boen couldn’t figure out their motivation. Even an accomplished Gaimosian Knight with his reputation wasn’t worth much of a bounty. What little he knew of Harnin failed to suggest much more than fanatic influence. Skaning and his goons must be operating alone in the hopes of crushing the rebellion. It was the only viable conclusion.

Boen frowned, unable to link a connection with Bahr’s group and the rebellion. More so, he couldn’t find a reason for Harnin knowing Bahr had returned. Logically it made no sense. There was no way Bahr could have made the return trip from Trennaron so quickly without the assistance of magic. Magic was rare in Malweir. Harnin had little or no reason to believe Bahr had access to magic, not even his failed torture of Anienam Keiss at the beginning of winter provided the One Eye with sufficient information.

The One Eye’s spy, Ionascu, was dead, rotting in the Jungles of Brodein. Boen secretly began to suspect the Dae’shan had their fingers in more than just Badron’s mind. It was the only thought that seemed to click into place. Their foul influence corrupted Badron. It was no great stretch of the imagination to think the same would have happened to Harnin. If that was the case, Bahr and the others were in for a world of hurt. Boen needed to return to the Sea Wolf as quickly as possible with his suspicions. He suddenly feared Bahr was marching into a trap.

“Come on, lad. We’ve got a long march ahead of us,” he whispered to his horse.

Boen awoke with a start. Cursing himself for falling asleep, he dragged his sword from the scabbard and hurried behind a group of iron-grey boulders. Torchlight flickered nearby through the pines. The sound of boots crunching through the snow drifted closer. Boen clutched the leather grips of his sword tighter. His carelessness placed him in direct harm. His body ached worse now than it had before he stopped moving, but sleep wasn’t going to be denied. Nearly falling from the saddle, the Gaimosian reluctantly took to ground for much-needed rest. Rest that left him in the middle of an attack.

Thankfully his enemy wasn’t sure of his exact location, else they would have killed him in his sleep and claimed his head for a trophy. Boen was awakened by the scrape of steel on stone. An accident to be sure, but enough of one to alert his keen senses from an unfit slumber. He slowed his breathing, drawing on the inner peace all Gaimosians took into battle. His mind centered. He became focused.

“Horse tracks are everywhere. So where is he?”

“Fool that big can’t have disappeared.”

“Already killed too many of us for thinking the same. Shut your mouths and keep on your toes. He’s crafty, aye, but we got numbers.”

Boen’s eyes flew open. He marked the voice. The leader always stood out. All Boen had to do was link a face to the voice and remove the mercenary’s command structure. The others should buckle under his assault. Torchlight broke through the trees, bathing his hiding space with red-orange light. Six figures followed, weapons drawn and ready. Boen burst from cover without waiting for them to get situated.

The mercenaries jerked back with a start. Boen roared an angry sound like a wounded beast. For the mercenaries, it was a warrior bent on murder. His sword plunged a foot deep into the first mercenary’s belly. Blood fountained out of his back as he fell screaming. Ripping the blade free, Boen spun in a full circle while lowering his center of gravity. His backhanded sweep took a second man above the knee. The severed limb flopped away before the rest of the body dropped beside it.

Boen moved quickly and stomped his heavy boot down on his victim’s exposed throat. The mercenary died with a loud crunch and soft gurgle. His last move gave the others enough time to recover and they fanned out in a rough semicircle. Their swords were lowered and pointed at him menacingly. Boen found it amusing and hardly the threatening gesture it was meant to be. They almost seemed to be toying with him.

“Got you cornered this time, you bastard,” the leader sneered.

Boen offered his most ferocious grin. “Have you?”

“Kill him already. Bastard’s already done too many of us.”

“Best listen to him. I aim to kill you too,” Boen taunted, hoping to force a rash decision.

Four against one wasn’t bad odds, but Boen wasn’t at his top condition. Tired, hungry, and ready to go south, he needed to find any advantage possible. Mercenaries weren’t known for their valor or intelligence. Every so often a rare one took up arms and led his peers. Boen wasn’t counting on the slender, foul-looking one calling the shots to be among the best. He pressed harder.

“Come on, scum. That steel’s doing nothing but getting cold.” He spit at the leader.

It worked. The mercenary captain lunged without thinking. Boen ducked back, raising his sword to block a savage swing. Steel clashed, sending sparks down to the ground. Boen grit his teeth as he absorbed the force of impact. Stronger than the Gaimosian anticipated, the mercenary tried to shove him back. Boen dug in his heels and shoved back.

They stood locked like that for tense seconds. Sweat beaded on their brows. Muscles strained. Boen gradually won. He outweighed the mercenary by a good thirty pounds and was several inches taller. It took longer than he figured but the mercenary was cast back. Boen charged in to finish him off. He slashed with a pair of jabs, taking the enemy off guard. Once he spotted his opening, Boen ripped his sword up diagonally. The tip of his sword caught the mercenary at the base of his throat, tearing out much of his neck and partially decapitating him. Hot blood melted snow. One of the mercenaries doubled over and retched.

Boen continued with a series of well-rehearsed attack moves on the nearest mercenary. Striking from high, the Gaimosian drove down with powerful blows. The strength of his assault forced the surviving enemy back. One tripped over a half-buried root and tried to roll away before he got trampled. Boen leapt over the fallen man and plunged his sword into the soft belly below the mercenary’s armor.

Hands reached up to grab his ankle before he could jerk his sword free from the dying mercenary. Boen became off balance and fell. Weaponless, he kicked back and was rewarded with a muffled cry. He felt bone crunch under his boot heel. Both legs freed, Boen pulled himself up and fell on the prone mercenary. He rained down blow after blow on the already ruined face the mercenary was so desperately trying to protect. His defense was nothing compared to the inherent savagery of a Vengeance Knight. Boen didn’t stop striking until the mercenary was long dead.

Chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, Boen slowly climbed off of the corpse. He couldn’t feel his hands but knew enough that several knuckles had been split open. He judged at least one finger was broken as well. As much as he would have liked to stop and inspect the damages, Boen lacked time. The mercenaries had alluded to having him painted into a corner, meaning they weren’t the only squad in the immediate area.