Even Gods Must Fall (7 page)

“Down in the jungles. Nasty bastards they were, too.”

Scarface, the younger mercenary, barked a shrill laugh. “You ain’t never been in the jungle.”

Boen spun on the smaller man. His fists clenched, the Gaimosian rose a little higher on the balls of his feet and leaned forward. “You calling me a liar,
boy
?”

Realizing his mistake, Scarface immediately backed down. “No, uh…I was just sayin is all. Folks all have tales of monsters and such.”

“I seen what I seen and don’t need some snot-nosed kid claiming different. We’re not going to have problems, are we?” Boen pressed.

Scarface threw his hands up and fervently shook his head. “Not from me.”

Boen gave a curt nod. “Good. Now where was we?”

“Talking on heading into them woods to rout our prey,” Pock Face answered smoothly, relishing the rebuke of his younger companion. “I heard tell Skaning wants us to go in tonight.”

“I don’t fancy tackling that bastard at night,” Boen replied. “Did either of you get a good look at him this morning?”

Scarface shook his head again, much slower this time.

“I did. Bigger than an ox he was,” Pock Face said. “Not the sort I’d want to run up against in the dark. You might be able to take him, or at least give him a good run.”

Boen froze. He forced his hand away from his sword. There was no way he’d be able to fight his way clear of the entire camp if he was discovered. “I may be big but I ain’t stupid. We got archers for that sort of work.”

“Archers ain’t no good at night.”

“I don’t reckon they are but neither is my courage. I don’t want to die until after I get paid,” Boen said quickly, hoping to distract them before idle minds began thinking.

Pock Face bit back a laugh. “Don’t matter none. Skaning hisself is taking ten of the lads to try and get this bastard tonight. With a little luck we’ll be done with this game and heading back to the real money. I’d like to be the one to take a swing at the king’s brother. Think of the bonus I’d get!”

Scarface yawned and rubbed his lower back. “Been a long while since we was forced to ride like that. I need some sleep.”

“Too bad you got next watch,” Pock Face reminded him. “I’ll be dreaming about your old lady though.”

“Go on ahead. Make sure you get whatever new diseases she done picked up too,” Scarface said and laughed.

“I’ll take the watch,” Boen offered. “I can’t get no sleep no how and my turn ain’t been called tonight.”

“Thanks, friend, but you ain’t getting a cut of my pay.”

Boen shrugged. “Don’t need it. Go and get before I change my mind.”

Without needing additional encouragement, Scarface trudged off to his sleeping roll, leaving Boen and Pock Face standing in awkward silence. The two studied each other, sizing each other up. Boen could tell the mercenary was trying hard to figure out whether they knew each other or not. He reached up to scratch his jaw, careful to avoid the awful scarring on his lower cheeks.

“Got a problem?” Boen asked defensively.

“Maybe. I don’t think I know you,
friend
.”

Boen tensed, ready to attack and flee. “Don’t see as to why you should. I joined up with that last batch of recruits when we was heading out of Chadra. Boss didn’t want to take me on at first cause of my age but I convinced him otherwise.”

“How?”

“By shoving this blade under his throat and telling him how much I needed the job,” Boen growled, casually showing his broadsword to the mercenary.

Pock Face blanched slightly at the size of the weapon, knowing he’d have difficulties wielding it in battle. “Well…ah, sounds good. I’m gonna take a piss. Watch my post?”

Boen nodded. Nervously, the mercenary headed out into the darkness to relieve himself. Boen waited a handful of seconds before drawing the dagger tucked in his waistband and stalked after. He came upon Pock Face just as he was tying his trousers up. A whirl of movement disturbed the night. Boen’s blade flashed once as it sliced neatly across the mercenary’s throat. Blood bubbled and frothed as it ran down between fingers desperately trying to seal the wound. But Boen had cut deeply. Pock Face would be dead in a matter of moments, leaving the Gaimosian free to make his way back to his horse and figure out how to deal with the ten mercenaries heading his way.

He snatched the body by the neck and waist and dragged it off into a small clump of holly bushes. Boen didn’t wait for Pock Face to die before wiping his hands clean on the snow and, after checking the camp a final time, sprinting off into the night. Sighing, he knew he was in for a long one. There was much to be done before he could appropriately welcome his coming guests.

A King Returned

Badron, deposed king of Delranan and tyrant of the north, sat staring at Harnin One Eye’s corpse as it swung gently in the late morning breeze. Crows had already pecked out the eye and both cheeks. No greater fate was deserved for a usurper. Once friends, Badron and Harnin carved Delranan into their own vision. Badron still wasn’t sure what went wrong. He’d gone off to war with the intent on bringing Rogscroft to heel and, potentially, forming the first northern empire. Harnin was supposed to keep Delranan running smoothly, pouring supplies and follow-on forces to the war effort. None of that happened.

Each person Badron questioned told the same tale. Plague and rebellion. What little remained of Badron’s once mighty kingdom didn’t deserve the title. Whole villages were gutted. The population, what was left of it, was downtrodden to the point they were ready to give up. Coupled with ferocity of this past winter, the kingdom of Delranan slowly faded away.

Badron was no fool. He knew that deep down at the core of the issue was the Dae’shan. Their eternal need to mess with mortals were already driving him mad. It didn’t take much to think they would have done the same or worse to Harnin. Badron hadn’t seen Amar Kit’han or the other Dae’shan since fleeing Rogscroft in shame. The betrayal of the Wolfsreik rocked his belief system. He lacked allies and, most of all, Kit’han’s guidance.

Taking the first fort in the long string of defenses had been relatively easy. His return left him questioning his principles. This wasn’t the same kingdom he’d left. Leaving for a different land where none recognized him wasn’t possible. He was already committed to the course. One way or another he was going to stand at the end of the storm. Rumors of the Wolfsreik crossing the mountains already reached his ears. It didn’t take much imagination to see their massive force crushing Harnin’s meager defenses in short order.

He needed to find a way out. A way to change the course of the coming war.

“Isn’t it amazing how unimpressive the mortal body is once the spark leaves?”

Badron screwed his eyes shut at the sound of the hissing voice whispering in his ear. His hopes that he’d lost the Dae’shan or fallen out of their favor were dashed like waves upon the rocks.

“Will I ever be freed from your curse?” he asked weakly.

Amar ignored him. “I’ve witnessed thousands of souls flee the mortal shell. Each is…unique despite the appalling similarities in life. More often than not the body clings to what little life remains, desperate to avoid becoming food for the worms. Would it pain you to learn how Harnin One Eye scraped and clung to his fading life, cursing your name with his last breath?”

“That is not the look he held in his eyes,” Badron protested.

“Was it not? What else could a man have who held such hatred for his former mentor?”

Badron finally opened his eyes. “Relief. He was relieved his troubles were over. Does that surprise you, demon? That a lowly man was able to overcome your manipulations, even at the moment of his death, and find a measure of honor? You’re not as all powerful as you wish to believe. There is strength left in this world. Enough to confront your mad quest for ultimate power and control.”

The Dae’shan paused, finding Badron’s change unexpected and disturbing. The northern kingdoms stood ready to fall. Rising amounts of carnage fed the Olagath Stone. Soon it would be filled with enough residual suffering to enact the ritual. Amar Kit’han spent generations cultivating Badron’s bloodline in order to achieve his desired results. The weak were culled in the same manner as over aggression. Over and over he repeated the process until he was sure the bloodline that remained contained all of the necessary requirements.

It was no accident Badron was the final result. He was inherently weak, craven. Badron had no qualms with ordering others to go to war but was a far cry from the warrior kings of old. He’d grown lazy over the years, complacent to the point of lethargy. Amar found killing the king of Delranan’s wife to be almost too simplistic. Surely another, more powerful catalyst was required in order to make the grieving king’s mind susceptible to the Dae’shan’s manipulations? Rather than fight, Badron willingly sank deeper into a darkening world.

Badron’s sudden defiance proved most unsettling. Amar had come expecting him to be weak, ripe for the final push towards Arlevon Gale. Instead he found a man desperately trying to regain a measure of his former strength, his mind healing from decades of irrepressible damage. Fortunately Badron had other blood relatives still alive. Options remained available to Amar and it was time to remind the king.

“It has never been my quest, king. I am a steward. I ward Malweir until the dark gods can reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Would you be the one to deny them? No. I think not. You’ve ever been a coward. Which is why I no longer need you.”

Badron stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Veins popped on his neck and forehead. “What do you mean?”

Amar grinned savagely under his hood. “Your brother and…daughter are both returned to Delranan. Which would you prefer I use in your stead?”

Badron’s voice turned dark, menacing. “I will deal with my brother. My daughter has no use to anyone, much less your lofty ideals.”

“Ah, there is where you err. Your daughter is most powerful. More so than you ever have the hope of becoming,” Amar taunted. “Does it disturb you to know Maleela, a creature you deemed pathetic and a waste of life, has the ability to conjure more terror than mighty Badron of Delranan ever could?”

Swift as a mountain cat, Badron was on his feet with sword drawn. He rounded on the Dae’shan, the point of his blade waving menacingly. “You seek to abandon me now, here? After all I’ve sacrificed to your whispered madness, I am not meant to be more than chattel? You claim immortality but I’m willing to put that to the test.”

“Put away your sword, broken king. You cannot harm me. If I chose, you would already be a pile of ashes at my feet.” Amar paused, hovering back slightly just in case. He hadn’t anticipated Badron’s great rage.

“No more lies. No more subterfuge. I’ve listened to you enough. I am the son of kings.” He spread his free arm. “All you see stretching away belongs to me and no other. This is my kingdom, not yours or some damned dark god lacking the balls to claim it himself. Take your filth and leave me. I may die in the process, but I’m ready to test you finally.”

“Perhaps you aren’t as lost as we believed,” Amar said through pursed lips.

“Leave me,” Badron warned.

Amar Kit’han folded his arms across his chest. He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. A squad of soldiers, fully armed and led by a young officer, was charging towards their beleaguered monarch. Amar decided it was past time to go. “Very well, but do not be so bold as to assume this is the last you will see of us. As we speak, the Wolfsreik have returned. They’ve laid siege to one of One Eye’s fortresses and are preparing a campaign to reclaim the throne. Your brother and his merry band of misfits drives from the west. They come to kill you. Delranan is a pathetic shell of what it once was. Your petty rule is at an end. Enjoy what little time you have remaining,
king
.”

Folding time and power, the Dae’shan evaporated as Badron’s soldiers arrived. They abruptly halted, not believing their eyes. Unshaken, the young lieutenant marched up to Badron with a worried look.

“Sire, what was that?”

Badron kept his focus on the residual bits of power, dark colors of green and blue, gradually falling to the ground. His mind struggled, and failed, to resolve what he’d just been told. When at last he shifted his gaze to the officer, his eyes were cloudy. “That, was a mistake.”

“Well, is it true?”

Badron stood with meaty fists planted squarely on his hips. His face was twisted in concern. It had been a very long time since he’d last led soldiers in the field. The campaign into Rogscroft was never his. He begrudgingly admitted to be more of a bother than asset. Rolnir had warned him from the beginning. He chose not to listen. A king wasn’t dictated by the whims of a field general.

Bergen, the same lieutenant who’d glimpsed Amar Kit’han, the only other person in Delranan as far as Badron knew, nodded repeatedly. “The army has returned but it is far worse than you were led to believe, sire. We counted three standards planted near their field command. Ours, Rogscroft, and that of the Pell Darga. They are a combined army.”

Badron scowled. He had but a few hundred fighters. They were all that stood between the traitorous Wolfsreik and the heart of Delranan. They weren’t enough, no matter how many fortresses One Eye managed to construct. He figured there were roughly between two hundred and fifty to five hundred soldiers strung out along the frontier in the seven fortresses guarding the eastern half of Delranan. Three thousand reservists against a force of nearly seven times that much, all seasoned, professional soldiers. Badron didn’t stand a chance.

“It appears I have but one recourse,” he said. “Send riders to every town, hamlet, and village from here to Chadra. Every able-bodied fighter is to report immediately for active duty.”

“That will prove excessively difficult,” Bergen answered amidst the open mouths and shocked looks of the assembled officers.

“I care why?”

Badron was tired of being countered with every order. Nothing had gone the way he’d planned since deploying the Wolfsreik. He’d been fought every step of the way. It was time for the king of Delranan to put his foot down and remind his soldiers who wore the crown.

“Sire, what I meant to say is that the kingdom has already been picked over. Between Harnin’s muster and the plague we are greatly reduced in manpower,” Bergen quickly added, sensing the rising displeasure from Badron.

“Find people. These little wooden playhouses won’t last long once Rolnir gets his entire force in the field.
Make
them come. I don’t care if you need to clasp them in chains. Do not fail me, lieutenant.”

* * * * *

Soldiers rampaged through the quiet village, rousing everyone in the middle of the night. Torches lit the central plaza as bleary-eyed citizens gradually filed in. Those who complained were lashed or kicked into action. A few desperate mothers attempted to hide their adolescent boys but it was already too late. Badron’s soldiers, while clumsy, were wholly effective. Soon the entire village stood assembled.

A rough-looking sergeant with a long scar, pink and puckered, running down the left side of his face thumped up to the town square and the small flight of steps to the block where merchants hawked their wares on market day. He glared down at the villagers with open disdain. His uniform was soiled, torn in places, unbefitting of a professional soldier. For many, this was their first encounter with the new Delrananian army. The feeling of disgust left in their mouths drove many to spit.

“By order of the king, the true king, not that one-eyed prick attempting to steal the throne, all military-aged males are ordered to march with us immediately. Any violators will be judged traitors and executed,” the sergeant growled.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Angry fists waved from the middle. More than one voice rose above the others in protest. The sergeant, to his credit, curled his fists and planted them on his hips while the fury ran through the villagers. He hadn’t come here intending on delivering justice to a handful of malcontents but he wasn’t opposed to hacking off an arm or two in the efforts of maintaining order.

“This ain’t our war!”

“What right do you have to come here and roust us out of our beds?”

“Don’t care about one king or the next! Go back and leave us about our business!”

Having had enough, the sergeant nodded gruffly to a squad of soldiers standing at the rear of the assembly. They immediately brandished clubs and waded into the villagers, knocking heads and limbs ruthlessly. Villagers reeled back, eager to avoid the terrible swath being cut through their ranks. Bodies tumbled. Cries rang out. The soldiers didn’t stop until they had beaten their way to the main aggressor and pummeled him to his knees. A loud crack brought their savage attack to an end. Hands snatched his prone form, dragging him up onto the market platform. He rolled once and stopped at the sergeant’s boots.

“This is what happens when you openly rebel against the crown,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “You now have five minutes before I lose my temper. Fifteen to fifty to kiss your loved ones good-bye, grab what gear you think you need, and assemble back here. Move!”

Reluctantly the crowd parted. Mothers wept. Old ladies hugged their husbands, knowing the odds of seeing them again were slim. Young boys feigned bravery. The same scene was played out across eastern Delranan throughout the night. Badron didn’t stand a chance of raising enough conscripts to beat back the combined army. They were all going to die.