Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (24 page)

The advancing army closed so that Crawulf could see the faces of the men coming to die. To die or deliver a savage death to their enemies filled the minds of men on both sides, battle lust overriding fear now that the enemy was within smelling distance. Crawulf heard his men roaring all around him, and realised he was shouting, as if he were intent on bursting a lung, along with them. He dug his heels into the softening ground as rain came down in great sheets of water. A flash lit up the sky, quickly followed by a crack of thunder.
The All Wise bears witness,
Crawulf thought, pleased that Alweise, king of the gods was there to accept his gift of blood. “We will feast with the gods tonight!” he roared over the din. The men around him cheered back, welcoming a glorious death in battle.

The distance between the two lines closed in a heartbeat as the Duchies army ate up the ground. Two lines of flesh and iron crashed together with wooden shields clashing as if thunder rippled along the line. A warrior with a mouthful of black teeth and stumps snarled at Crawulf as he thrust a spear over his shield, aiming the point at the jarl’s face. Crawulf caught it on his own and stabbed with his sword at the man’s neck. The warrior fell back as a crimson spray erupted, like the geysers dotted all over Fire Isle, drenching the men around him. Another stepped forward to take his place and Crawulf jabbed out with the iron boss of his shield before he had time to settle into place. Beside him, a Nortman hammered at an upraised shield in front of him with an axe, sending splinters of wood into the air. The relentless assault stopped abruptly when a spear snaked out from the opposite wall of iron and wood, stabbing him just below the eye. The man slumped onto Crawulf’s shoulder as the jarl attempted to swing his sword, breaking the momentum of the arc. With a curse he shrugged the dead Nortman off and quickly raised his shield just in time to block the strike from a short-sword.

He was beginning to regret carrying his own sword into battle and not opting for a shorter blade or a spear to stab with. His sword, gifted to him by his father, and by his father before him was a fine length of killing steel, but perhaps not the best weapon in such close quarters. He was close enough to feel the splash of spittle from his attacker wash over his face when the man screamed a war-cry. He drew his head back and then launched it forward, the man’s nose disintegrated from the iron helmet smashed into his face, and he fell back screaming. Crawulf stepped forward as the man fell, grinding the heel of his boot into the man’s head, crushing his skull like a thick-skinned fruit brought to Wind Isle by the merchants of the empire.

Rain water ran down the hill, dyed a reddy-brown, equal parts mud and blood. He glanced back and realised the line of Nortmen had steadily pushed the Duchies from the top of the hill and were inching them back to where they had come from. It was good that they were pushing the enemy back, but he did not want his men moving from the top of the hill. He would need to stop their advance.

As he was thinking on how best to stop the steady advance of his men, he caught sight of Duke Elsward’s banner, a prancing lion on a green field—Crawulf had never seen a real lion before and doubted if Elsward had either. It could just as easily be an exotic chicken as a ferocious predator—it was moving fast behind the line of men-at-arms, and peasants making up his army. Cold dread dripped into his bowels when he realised why the duke was moving so fast. He was rallying the scattered horsemen and forming them to attack the Nortland left flank. Crawulf scanned the line until his eyes found the chosen man commanding the left: Olf Skarnjak – One Eye. He caught a glimpse of him barracking the men around him. Had he spotted the danger? Crawulf needed to get a message to him.

Before the thought could form properly a surge from the lines behind him propelled him forward. The dull thud of a weapon bouncing off his mail armour reminded him that he was in the midst of a battle. He lashed out at the man in front of him, so close that he could smell his sour breath and the sweat of a hundred and more men all around him. The man went down, lost beneath a forest of legs and likely crushed into the sticky earth at their feet. He took a step back reaching out to find the man behind him and haul him in to take his place. He had to stop his men from pushing forward and giving up the crest of the hill, and he had to get word to One Eye.

Pain exploded in his head and travelled like a lightning strike to the base of his spine. White light flashed before him then turned red. He staggered back trying to focus on the man in front of him. No easy thing with his sight blurred. He saw two men, hazy as if they were emerging from a fog… no, not two, just one. The man raised a weapon. To Crawulf it was just a blur, it could have been an axe, or hammer… it could have been a lump of wood for all he could tell. His mind told him he needed to raise his shield, but his arms refused to respond. In the distance Elsward’s banner rippled in the wind as the lion stood on two legs roaring its defiance at the Nortmen and the gale blowing across the battlefield. He waited, dumbly, for the killing blow.

He felt hands grabbing him then. He imagined the bone-white fingers of the Soul Reapers lifting him into the air. “My sword,” he mumbled. He would greet his gods with his father’s sword in his hands. Rain landed icy kisses on his face. All else was numb.

Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor

M
ist clung to the trees in silky threads and blanketed the forest floor as Duke Normand led his warriors in pursuit of the hunting hounds and their handlers. He could hear the great shaggy beasts barking and yelping in the distance as they picked up the scent of their prey.
Was that prey some hapless forest animal, or the mythical man-like monsters purportedly roaming the high and almost inaccessible parts of the mountains?
he wondered. He pulled his fur-trimmed cloak tight around his shoulders, yet still the cold penetrated through to his bones. It was becoming harder to breathe the higher they climbed. Countless times that day he cursed himself for undertaking this expedition personally; he had men for this sort of thing. What was he trying to prove?

“My lord, up ahead, the hounds have caught something,” a mail-clad warrior said. Normand simply nodded to the man as he sucked in ragged breaths.

The pack of hounds were being held back on strained leashes by their handlers, he pushed past the circle of woodsmen examining what the hunting dogs had found.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Deer, my lord. A large stag,” a woodsman answered, as he leaned on his unstrung bow, examining the carcass.

“I can see that.” Normand made no effort to hide his irritation. “Is this what has dragged me…” Before he could finish, a loud, throaty growl rent the mountain air, sending a shiver down his spine. “What is that?” Normand scanned around him, but all he saw were trees covered in gossamer strands of mist. Another loud snarl answered the first. The hounds barked and snarled back, straining at their leashes as they pranced and jumped excitedly. A third, then fourth roar called out in the distance.

“Sabre lions,” a woodsman answered. “Sounds like a pack, hunting. He hawked and spat on the ground.

“Lions?” Normand groaned.

“Bigger’n lions, my lord. Big as ponies they grow, with two long fangs thick as yer arm and sharp as that dagger on yer belt. They like the cold so they does, and stay up here high in the mountains.”

“Will they attack? Surely not.”

“Aye, maybe, depends how hungry they is, and how big the pack is. There’s not much they’s afeared of, especially when you’re in their territory. You cross into their lands, that makes you their prey.” He grinned and then spat again.

“And none of you thought it wise to share this before we left?”

“We wasn’t huntin’ lions, my lord.”

Normand drew in a breath to castigate the man for his insolence, but then realised he would most likely only waste his time. The agitated dogs distracted his thoughts as he tried to picture a lion as big as a pony with dagger-like fangs. He shivered again, but not from the cold this time. “So this deer is theirs? Can’t we just leave it to them and go?”

“Not sure about that, my lord. This animal’s had its skull caved in. Sabre lions don’t kill like that. They’ll either hold their prey down and strangle it with their jaws or slice its throat with their fangs and wait for it to bleed to death.”

“Thank you for the graphic description,” Normand answered. The woodsman tipped his finger to his forehead, ignoring or not sensing the sarcasm in the duke’s words.

“So they would attack a group such as ourselves?” Normand’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. The woodsman just shrugged.

“If they see us as a rival pack encroaching on their territory they’d likely feel a need to,” another woodsman said. Normand looked from one man to the other then back to the dead stag, noticing now the bloodied head and broken antler.

“And this deer was killed by some other beast?”

“Aye, my lord. Somethin’ powerful by the looks of it.”

Normand paced back and forth, his hand idly stroking his trimmed beard. “Very well,” he came to a decision, “you two roam ahead and search for signs of the monster we seek…”

“My lord, there’s a pack of sabre lions huntin’…” the first woodsman interrupted.

“You would prefer for us all to remain packed tightly together, with no eyes or ears scanning ahead?” The idea of pushing into unknown terrain without scouts probing ahead was completely at odds with his military training.

“I would prefer if we left the mountain, leastwise the territory of the pack.”

“What is your name?”

“Olaf, my lord.”

“Well, Olaf, take your friend here and lead the way.” Normand kept his voice even and calm, but a twitch in his cheek and the reddish colouring around his eyes told the woodsmen they had crossed a line. “We came here to hunt and kill a beast, who you and your fellows assured me exists, and this we shall do. If these lions are upset by us crossing their hunting ground, well I have news for them… I have news for all of you.” He suddenly raised his voice high enough for the entire group of fighting men, dog-handlers and woodsmen to hear. “This is my land. These are my mountains. No man, nor beast shall tell me where I can or cannot go. Eorotia is my city. My word is law here. Let these beasts come and we shall all wear lion hide coats this winter.”

The men-at-arms nodded their approval while rattling their weapons and slamming their fists off their mail-clad chests. The dog handlers continued to struggle with their charges as the hounds reacted to the distant call of the lions. The scouts slunk away, melting into the forest and disappearing from sight. Without another word the rest of the troop followed the woodsmen, every man looking nervously at the mist-shrouded trees surrounding them.

By midday the terrain remained unchanged. The mist, at least, had lifted, but despite a clear blue sky, it remained cold. The ragged mountains still rose high above them, cutting a dark, jagged line in the sky, the peaks seeming no closer than when they set out from Eorotia. Normand reflected on the vastness of his new lands, wild lands, previously the preserve of bandit gangs and beasts such as the lions who still tracked them, judging by the calls back and forth, sometimes seeming so close as to be right on top of them, then other times when the roars and snarls seemed leagues away. All of the men were on edge, with weapons at the ready, the hum of jovial banter heard the previous day silent now.

Normand called a halt when the hounds became even more noisy and animated than they had previously been. The fearsome, shaggy hounds snarled and growled, pulling their handlers along as the hapless men tried to control them. Finally one leather leash snapped. For an instant the animal froze, as if its disbelief at being freed overrode its desire to answer the challenge from the forest. And then it was gone. Great bounding strides ate up the ground as it became a grey blur and headed into the trees. The rest of the pack became uncontrollable as they yearned to answer the call of their brother and follow after into the woods.

“Release them!” Normand bellowed. “We’ll follow.”

The entire pack of hounds raced from their handler’s grip, and the men followed the cacophony of barks and snarls as they disappeared from sight. The armed men hurried after, crashing through the woods like a huge, iron-clad monster, setting to flight any small animals brave and curious enough to still be in the vicinity.

The massive hounds were no ordinary hunting dogs, as Normand knew well, they were bred and used throughout the Duchies for hunting wolves, even bears. He had never known a wild predator to be a match for them. They could range for hundreds of leagues with their great loping stride, if need be, also capable of huge bursts of speed over short distance. Their bite was fearsome and relentless. In many ways they were the perfect hunter. A hugely intelligent animal, and fiercely loyal to their masters. They were a breed of hound only found in the Duchies, although they were much prized and sought after far beyond those borders. Which is why Normand failed to hide the utter shock from his face when they came upon a bloody scene, what seemed like moments after the pursuit had begun. Two of the huge hounds lay in a clearing, their grey, shaggy fur matted in blood. Both of them had had their throats ripped out. Their bodies bore evidence of further wounds.

“The All Father preserve us,” a warrior muttered.

One of the dog handlers, a boy of about twelve, rushed over and knelt by the corpses of the hounds, his eyes glistening with the visible evidence of his grief as he cautiously reached out a hand and placed it on the flank of one hound.

“Quiet!” Normand snapped, as he strained to listen. The faint sounds of violent struggle between animals drifted through the forest.

A woodsman pointed. “There!”

“I’ve never seen them hounds take such a maulin’ before,” a gruff voice said.

Men glanced about anxiously as the forest seemed to come alive; the trees rustled and swayed. Dark shapes flashed at the corner of the eye and disappeared as quickly when men swung around to catch a better view of whatever it was. Up ahead, beyond sight, where the narrow trail disappeared among the trees, Normand heard a high-pitched yelp and then all went silent.