Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (25 page)

“The hounds, my lord…” a warrior began but was silenced by Normand flapping his hand irritably. The forest went still, deathly quiet… and then erupted into a wall of noise.

Bursting through the trees, leaping through the air, snarling wicked smiles of terror were the sabre lions. Normand barely had time to see the wickedly sharp fangs dominating the gaping maws of the leaping beasts. The enraged animals slammed into his warriors, knocking them to the ground before slashing at them with sharp claws and reaching for exposed throats with their deadly fangs. The mail-clad warriors were lucky as their armour offered protection against the vicious bite of the lions, whereas the houndless dog handlers and the lightly armoured archers and woodsmen fared a lot worse. The weight and strength of the beasts was colossal as they forced screaming men to the ground, where they were savaged with dagger-like teeth.

Normand stood, disbelieving as his troop of warriors was overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of massive predators defending their territory from what they saw as an intruding pack. He had fought in many battles, both been ambushed and laid surprise attacks on his enemy, yet he’d never felt so helpless by an onslaught. He fumbled for the sword strapped to his waist barely able to tear his eyes from the sight of a huge lion ripping out the throat of an archer with a twist of its massive head. The beast looked up and regarded Normand with yellow eyes, its maw bloodied red.

“My lord, this way.” Hands pushed the duke leading him from the slaughter. Frightened men ran in all directions, while those unlucky enough to be the target of a brown, mottled lion fought desperately for their lives.

Normand followed the back of a warrior as he pushed his way through the foliage, blindly running from the melee with the lions. Behind him, those who had survived the attack followed, confusion and terror plainly visible on their faces. They ran as the sounds of men dying horrific deaths faded into the distance, as the blood-freezing roars of the terrifying beasts grew dimmer. They ran, although they knew not where to, or how to return to the trail. They ran with fear twisting in their guts.

The lead warrior stopped abruptly at the edge of a clearing. Normand dropped his hands to his knees as he gulped air into his burning lungs. He yearned to unbuckle his mail shirt, but feared to do so having seen what the claws and jaws of the lions were capable of doing to un-armoured flesh. Men all around him wheezed and coughed as their chests heaved. A wave of shame washed over Normand as he thought about the men he’d left behind and how he had run from the fight. He wanted to blame the men who ushered him from the scene and led him in a blind flight. Yet, he knew that was unfair. Blind terror had gripped him at the sight of the slaughter. He had stood mesmerised as men became meat; prey to the apex predators of the mountains. He looked around him, half a dozen or so, mail-clad warriors, and a handful of archers gathered about him, each of them bearing a haunted look in their eyes. He empathised with each one of them. He knew what he had to do. He had to take charge once again and lead his men back. To round up those who were left alive. Shame burned within him as he thought of the left dead and dying.

“My lord…” Normand turned around to see why he had stopped so abruptly.

“What is that?” Normand asked as his gaze followed to where the warrior was pointing.

“That is a man wedged in a tree,” the warrior said quietly.

Normand could make out the shape now. “Where is his…?”

The warrior pointed at the ground at the base of the tree. Normand’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of a head and arm. The trunk of the tree looked as if someone had painted a wide line the length of it with red paint. The duke felt bile rise in his throat.

“The lions did that?” His voice cracked.

“I don’t think so, my lord.” Neither man could tear their gaze from the horrific scene.

A realisation came to Normand. “That is Olaf… the woodsman I ordered to scout ahead.”

“What’s left of him at least.”

Normand shook of the trance and took a step closer to the tree housing the decapitated scout. “How did he get up there?”

“Looks as if he were flung there, my lord.”

“What could have done that?” Normand moved closer. He could see tear-shaped drips of blood hanging from branches before falling to the forest floor. His gaze wandered up, to where Olaf’s remains hung ten feet off the ground, wedged between two branches, the headless corpse coating them, and the surrounding leaves, in red gore. Hot bile rose to his throat, making him wretch. His men remained silent and motionless around him.

“My lord…” the warrior reached out a tentative hand, which Normand brushed aside.

“For the sake of the All Father, get him down from there,” he instructed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The warrior gave a nod to two others and they quickly moved to make an attempt at climbing the tree. No easy thing with the trunk slick and greasy with gore. Eventually one of them made it up and clambered out onto one of the branches supporting the body of the scout. Gingerly, on hands and knees the armoured man made his way to the corpse. The others watched in grim silence as he tugged and heaved until finally Olaf crashed to the earth. Normand flinched at both sight and sound of the body landing with a sickening squelch.

Normand had no time to gather his thoughts as a spine-chilling roar erupted from the forest, shattering the silence of the clearing. A flock of birds who had been observing from a lofty perch took flight, rustling the treetops all around the men.
Lions,
was Normand’s first thought, although somewhere deep down in his subconscious he knew that the roar he had just heard was not the same. A primeval instinct yelled at him to run. This time, though, he fought his fear.

“Form a line!” he barked at his men. The warriors quickly formed a small shield-wall as the sound of snapping branches told them something heavy was moving quickly towards them. He could taste the fear in the air, as he suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to turn and run as fast as he could in any direction away from what was crashing through the forest. A second roar made him flinch and the world turned to chaos.

A massive shape smashed into the clearing. Running upright, on two legs, just like a man, was a colossal beast, its entire body covered in white and grey fur. Twice the size of any man in both height and width, it crashed into the clearing in a whirlwind of violence and terror. Arrows flew over Normand’s head, fired by the archers standing behind the shield-wall.

“Hold!” a man yelled from the end of the line.

The beast bellowed a fear-inducing screech as a hail of arrows hit it. Enraged, it swatted two massive hands at the line of warriors, ripping their shields from their hands, before it smashed through them, flinging men into the air. Normand swung his sword at the mountain of fur, not even knowing if he connected. The man-beast swatted at him, backhanded, sending him sprawling into the trees. He landed hard on his back and smashed his head off a tree. He could hear the cries of terror, but try as he might he could not move. When he tried to focus on his surroundings, all he could make out was a blurred image of colours.

As he fought down panic, he suddenly felt hands upon him, and realised he was being dragged. Urgent voices filled the air around him, voices of strangers, both men and women. They spoke in whispers in a sing-song accent he did not recognise. He tried to fight them, to even focus on them, but they were just blurred shapes in a sea of blues and greens.

“The Dragon Lord has returned,” they whispered.

“Kill him now. He is the bringer of doom.”

“No! That is not how it is written.”

“He will wake the dragon and bathe the world in blood, so it is written” they said in unison, an edge of panic and awe to their voices.

“Kill him!” a female voice insisted.

“No! The Lord of Shadows forbids it.”

Panic welled inside Normand. He had no feeling other than the sensation of being dragged. He could see nothing but blurred shapes.

“The Dragon Lord is among us.” The voices trailed off and Normand drifted into blackness.

“My lord… my lord!”

He flinched and a whimper of fear escaped from him as he gazed into the grizzled face of his man-at-arms.

“Are you well, my lord?”

He swallowed hard before pulling himself into a sitting position. “The beast?”

“Fled, my lord. Do you wish to pursue it?”

“No, Malachi, I do not.”

Tomas: Alka-Roha

T
omas dragged a whetstone down the length of his blade. Stone rasping on steel was the only sound in the small room. He watched Aliss, her face hidden by strands of long white hair hanging over a wide wooden bowl filled with water. She held her hands either side of the bowl, gently moving them through the air in slow, short movements, as if she were parting the water held in the wooden vessel she was so intent on.

“It has been three days now, and nothing,” Tomas complained.

Aliss looked up, regarding him with storm-grey eyes. He looked away from the shifting clouds. “Patience, my love. I can feel the power growing within me, getting stronger every day. Haera not only saved me, but she has awoken a deeper well of magic. I don’t understand it, but I feel it.”

Tomas sighed and shook his head. “What are you doing there anyway? You haven’t stopped staring into that bowl of water all morning.”

“Searching.” Aliss smiled, her eyes shining.

“In a bowl?” Tomas arched an eyebrow.

“I have heard of mages and powerful witches with the power to scry the past and future using various devices. I never realised before that I too had the power.” Her smile widened.

“And what do you see?” Tomas asked somewhat sceptically.

“I see a temple, in the desert. Its walls are crumbling and its gates have long since turned to dust. To any who would pass it by, or even stop to rest in the shade of the ruin, it looks as if it has not been inhabited for a hundred years or more.”

“What is this place?”

“It is a temple to a god long forgotten by the folk here, worshipped by their ancestors in a different time. A charm has been placed upon it to make it look so.” She grinned and Tomas would swear a bolt of light flashed across her eyes.

“So it is not in ruins? How is that even possible?”

“Magic, as I am realising more and more, can be a very powerful force.”

“You think the dream-witch is there?”

“Oh yes,” Aliss answered.

“Where is it?” Tomas asked.

Aliss dropped her head. “I do not know.”

Tomas sighed and dragged the whetstone down the length of his sword once again, while Aliss returned to scrying.

Suddenly she cried out and jumped back away from the bowl. Horror twisted her face into a mask of fear. Tomas leapt up and ran to her side.

“What is it?” he asked urgently, as he looked mystified at the bowl. Aliss lashed out and knocked it from the table. Water splashed onto the floor as the bowl landed upside down on the floorboards. “What did you see?” he asked again as Aliss slowly composed herself.

“Blood. I saw blood,” she panted.

“Blood?”

“She knows we are searching for her. We must be careful and we must find her quickly.”

“How can we do that if we do not know where she is?”

“She is in the temple,” Aliss answered.

“But you already said you do not know where that is.” Tomas’s face creased in consternation.

“No, but we know what we are looking for, and it is likely known well enough. We just have to ask.”

“Horace is the tracker. I’ll tell him to ask around. He may even have heard of such a place himself. If he can tear himself from the whores and wine that is.” Tomas strapped on his sword belt.

“I’ll come too. I need to leave this room and fill my lungs with fresh air.”

“You’ll do well to find a clear breath of air anywhere in this stinking town. By the All Father, I’ve never been anywhere so hot.” Tomas wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand before opening the door and standing back to allow Aliss to leave the room first.

Below, in the common room of the inn they quickly spied their three travelling companions. Horace the tracker sat with a dark-skinned girl on his knee while he quaffed a jug of wine.

“Must you bring your… entertainments here?” Tomas asked, his lip curled in disgust.

“Listen to the lord high and mighty, king of the fucking swamp,” Horace shot back before draining the jug. “More wine!”

Tomas tensed, balling his fists. He felt a hand on his arm and glanced at Aliss.

“He’s drunk, let it pass,” she said. He looked to the other two men, all warriors of Duke Normand. They shrugged before returning their attention to their own wine.

“We need to find a temple,” Aliss said to Horace. “It is likely in ruin, with crumbling walls, long abandoned. Can you ask around, Horace?”

“I know of such a place,” the whore spoke up, her interest suddenly piqued.

“You do?”

“Yes,” she answered, quickly looking away from the swirling clouds examining her intently. She slapped away Horace’s wandering hand as it slid inside the brightly coloured dress she wore. “I can take you there… for gold,” she added.

“Is it far from here?” Aliss asked, stepping aside to allow the landlord through to deliver a clay jug. Red liquid sloshed over the sides making small puddles on the table when Horace snatched it from his hand.

“Two days’ ride,” she answered, fighting off another assault from the drunken tracker.

“Very good,” Aliss’ full lips curled into a smile. “You will be paid well if you speak true.”

She nodded and beamed a smile in return. Horace grabbed her as she attempted to stand up, pulling at her skirts. She swung on him and punched him hard in the face. “I am no longer your whore. Now I am your guide,” she spat, her exotic accent, rolling the words as she spoke, lacing them with venom.

Horace drew back his fist as his face clouded with anger, only for Tomas to catch his wrist, using his great blacksmith’s strength to immobilise the arm of the much smaller man. “Enough,” he said, his voice calm and soft, yet his meaning was clear enough.