Redemption (Book 6) (13 page)

Then there was the problem of equipment. Halberds and pikes were poor substitutes for good steel swords and muskets. Even bows and crossbows were in short supply. The Redemption militia was poorly equipped as it was. Most of the militiamen had to supply their own equipment out of their own pockets. And every day they spent here in arms was one day that they weren’t tending their farms or earning a living at the lumber mills.

It was a recipe for disaster. Sooner or later, something had to give.

Kendril turned to the desk that dominated his office. He reached for the top dispatch, the report from the scouts that he had sent over the Wall to discover the position of the Jombard forces.

But he hesitated. His eyes shifted from the dispatch to the large trunk that was set against the wall of the room, sandwiched between the bookshelf and a musket stand.

Kendril walked over to the chest and knelt down before it. Slowly, almost with reverence, he undid the clasp and opened the lid.

There was a jumble of personal belongings inside. Folded on the top was a black hooded cloak. Two sheathed short swords, each about two feet in length, lay wrapped in the cloak. To the side was a pair of black leather gauntlets.

Kendril tentatively put his hand into the chest. He grabbed the worn, stained fabric of the black cloak. Then he reached for one of the swords and picked it up. He unsheathed it.

It was a fine, solid weapon. Steel that had been sharpened countless times flashed in the gray light from the window. The edges of the blade were notched and nicked in various places, a testimony to the violent fights that it had seen over the years.

The sword was simple. Rugged. Reliable. Its short length and broad blade made it equally good at stabbing and swinging, at attacking and parrying. But its short length made it suffer in combat with a longer blade, especially in the hands of a skilled swordsman.

That was why Kendril had always carried two of the weapons. It had not always been enough, however. He still had the scars that Lord Bathsby had given him in Balneth to prove it.

Kendril turned the sword over in his hands, his eyes wandering down the length of the dull gray blade. It was strange, the attachment that he felt to this weapon. It was like an old friend, a part of himself.

It was nothing compared to the finely-crafted rapier that Kendril currently carried. That had been made by the finest swordsmiths in all of Llewyllan. The blade never seemed to notch or need sharpening. The way it had cut through the werewolf’s head just that morning had been a testament to its superb craftsmanship. With a sword like that, a man could conquer the world.

Kendril quietly sheathed the short sword.

Still, every time he wore the beautiful, deadly rapier at his side, every time he drew it in battle and heard the hum of the metal through the air....

It felt like someone else’s weapon.

Kendril looked down at the folded cloak and gauntlets.

“Sir?” Wilkes rapped on the doorpost of the office. “I have your coffee, General.”

Kendril quickly put the sword back in the chest and shut the lad. “Put it on the desk, Wilkes.”

“Yes, sir.” The lad came in, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Kendril’s sheathed rapier in the other. “Cook’s still working on the fish, sir.”

Kendril nodded absently. He got up and took the coffee.

Wilkes laid the sword down on the desk as if it were an infant being put to bed. “The men said you—” he paused, suddenly self-conscious of his words. “That is to say, there was talk that you killed a, uh,
werewolf
this morning, sir.”

Kendril took a sip of the coffee. He gave a resigned nod of his head. “There was a werewolf at Hangman’s Hill, yes.”

Wilkes’ eyes grew wide. “You...you think there might be more of them, sir? Werewolves, I mean?”

Kendril glanced out the window at the parade ground. “There are dark forces stirring in the forests of Jothland. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see Regnuthu himself before this is over.” He turned his head back to the boy, and realized that the color had completely drained from Wilkes’ face.

“Yes, sir,” the lad stammered. He stared down at the floor. His arms were trembling. “I—if you need anything, sir, just let me know. I’m still seeing about a new horse.” He gave a shaky salute, then started to turn for the door.

Kendril put the coffee down. “Wilkes?”

He turned. “Yes, sir?”

“How old are you?”

Wilkes hesitated. “Eighteen summers, sir.”

Kendril gave a half-smile. “How old are you
really
?”

Wilkes glanced down at the floor. “Sixteen, sir.”

“Sixteen,” Kendril murmured. He felt suddenly old.

Wilkes looked around, as if nervous. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sir? Can...I ask you a question?”

Kendril took another sip of the coffee. It was a little on the weak side. “Fire away.”

“When you killed that werewolf—” Wilkes swallowed. “Were you...
scared
?”

Kendril looked up from the dispatches at the young man’s eyes. He could read the fear there as plainly as if it had been an open book.

And there were a lot of other men in the militia who were just as scared of meeting their first Jombard in battle, much less an abomination from the Void.

“I was terrified,” Kendril lied.

Wilkes gave a nervous smile. He nodded his head eagerly. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He pointed at the coffee. “If you want any more, let me know.” He saluted and exited the room.

Kendril stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, his fingers gripping the scouts’ dispatch on the desk in front of him. Then he flipped open the dispatch and scanned its contents.

His face slowly turned into a scowl as he read.

The report was clear enough, and really no surprise. The scouts had detected a massive presence of combined Jombard tribes not ten miles east of the Wall. They were still encamped in the same place they had been for the last four weeks, ever since the first round of attacks.

It was unusual for the pagan tribes to unite this long and remain in one place without either launching a massive attack or breaking up into warring factions. This “Great Fang” that the witch Bronwyn had mentioned must be a powerful war chieftain indeed to hold the barbarians together this long.

And then there were the werewolves. Kendril had killed one more than a month ago, in a sea cave along the coast when he had tried to capture Bronwyn. He had almost managed to convince himself that it had been an isolated incident, a unique intrusion of the Void into the real world.

Until this morning.

Kendril tossed the dispatch down and flicked his eyes up to the large map tacked on the wall of the office.

What was this Great Fang waiting for? The tension was like static electricity in the air before a storm. Why not throw all the barbarian tribes at the Wall at once and be done with it?

Kendril shook his head. The Jombards
were
coming. He knew that much. And when they did, he would meet them and break the horde before it could reach Redemption.

He grabbed the sword off the desk and buckled it onto his belt. It felt strangely heavy, and...
wrong
at his side. Without thinking Kendril’s eyes shifted to the trunk against the wall.

No. He wasn’t a Ghostwalker anymore. He couldn’t continue to live out his penance any longer. He needed to be Lord Ravenbrook again. He was the only one who could save this land and this people.

His
land.
His
people.

Kendril was about to head for the door when he remembered the letter from the mayor. With a sigh he dug out the official dispatch and cut it open with the slim dagger he kept on the desk as a letter opener.

With the sounds of the drill sergeant berating the new recruits out in the parade ground echoing in his ears, Kendril looked quickly over the letter.

Seconds later he crumpled it in his fist, his eyes ablaze. “Wilkes!”

The boy’s head appeared almost instantly. He had the look of a hound that had done something wrong and expected punishment. “Sir?”

“Saddle a horse for me,
now
,” Kendril ordered. He strung out a line of curses under his breath. “Tell Colonel Root I’m riding for Redemption.”

Wilkes nodded, half-afraid of the storm on Kendril’s face. “Y-yes, sir. Right away sir.”

Kendril threw the crumpled letter onto the desk.

Wilkes hesitated for just a moment in the doorway, his eyes on the crinkled dispatch. “What’s wrong, sir?”

Kendril jerked his head towards Wilkes so quickly that the boy almost physically leaped back. “
What’s wrong
? What’s wrong is that the honorable Lord Blackstone is about to hand the entire colony of Redemption over to the Jombards.”

Wilkes gawked. For a moment his legs seemed to have forgotten how to operate.

Kendril clenched a fist, then stared over at Wilkes. “A horse, Wilkes.
Now
.”

There were bodies on the ground, amidst the trees and brambles. Twelve, by Bronwyn’s count.

Senseless. So completely senseless.

She strode in the forest between the two lines of tents and makeshift huts that the Jombard tribesmen had set up. “How did it start?” she asked, trying to keep her voice measured and calm.

“The Blood Fang Clan insulted us,” the chieftain standing behind Bronwyn responded. He curled back his lips in a snarl. “They questioned our honor, our reputation. We—”

“That is a lie,” the Blood Fang chieftain broke in. He stood on the other side of Bronwyn, with half a dozen armed warriors at his side. “It was this coward and his lackeys who insulted
us
. The Half Moon Tribe has always been reckless and eager for treachery—”

The Half Moon chieftain reached for his spear. The warriors behind him jumped into action as well. They seemed to need little motivation to do so.

The Blood Fang chieftain and his men had their weapons up in a moment as well.

“Let us finish what you have started,” the Half Moon chieftain growled. “Show me your courage, you son of a suckling pig.”

The Blood Fang chieftain raised his spear, ready to cast it. “I would be more than happy to show you how a real warrior fights.”

Bronwyn gave a heavy sigh. She turned her head first to one chieftain, and then to the other. “I have stood in the presence of the goddess,” she said, her voice still low and calm. “And you would battle over petty grievances right in front of me?”

“The goddess has little sway here,” the Half Moon chieftain said. “Harnathu is our lord, and it is
he
who—”

Bronwyn turned on the man with a terrible expression on her face. “You would dare to speak ill of the goddess? To
blaspheme
her?”

The chieftain shrank back, sudden fear on his face. “I-I meant no disrespect. I only—”

Bronwyn raised her hand. Her amber eyes flashed with zealous rage. “You are cursed. The hand of the goddess is on you. You shall bear no children. Your wives shall find comfort in the arms of other men.”

The Half Moon chieftain fell to his knees, his face white and trembling. “No, no, priestess, I did not mean it! I spoke rashly, I—”

“The Blood Fang tribe still honors
all
the Seteru,” the second chieftain said smoothly. “Give me the word, priestess, and I shall kill this man for you and the goddess.”

Bronwyn turned to look at the man. As tempted as she was to take him up on his offer, she knew that he had no real desire to serve Indigoru or any of the other Seteru. This was a matter of tribal hatred and ongoing blood feuds, nothing more. And she could not afford for there to be more bloodshed in the camp.

The Great Fang needed to act, and soon. Or else the entire Jombard “army” would collapse.

“Stay your hand,” Bronwyn hissed at the Blood Fang chieftain. “Do you think that Indigoru is unable to defend herself?”

“One might then ask, witch, why she did not do so at Vorten?” A new voice, deep and sonorous, came from behind Bronwyn.

She whirled, startled.

The Great Fang moved towards her. He exuded the strength and power of a bear, but stepped with the lightness and smoothness of a leopard. Behind him were Odgar and several other chieftains. All were wearing their war paint and were armed.

“There has been another skirmish,” said Bronwyn. She raised her head, trying her best not to show her surprise at the Fang’s unexpected appearance. “The tribes are restless, Great Fang. If we do not—”

“Peace, witch,” the Fang rumbled. “At last I have heard from Harnathu the wolf-god. It is time to gather the tribes to march for war.” He looked up at the chieftains and warriors who were crowding all around. “It is time for Redemption to burn. Time for the Demonbane to die.”

Chapter 8

Kara came wide awake at the shock of the cold, salty water in her face.

She sat up, coughing and sputtering. Her head, hair, and shoulders were absolutely soaked.

A pirate threw down a wooden bucket with a roaring laugh. “That did it, boys! The lady’s back with us.”

There was a series of shouts and catcalls.

Kara scrambled to her feet. She reached instinctively at her belt for her dagger.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t there.

The pirate, a tall man with a crooked nose and salt-and-pepper colored hair, pushed the tip of a sharp cutlass right under Kara’s chin. “I wouldn’t do anything fool-like if I was you, doll.” He gave a leering smile. “It’d be a shame to cut that pretty face of yours.”

“Stand still, Kara,” came Maklavir’s voice to her left. He spoke in a low whisper. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Kara glanced to her left.

Maklavir was there, along with the merchant ship captain and the crew. They were lined against the far railing of the merchant ship. Most looked relatively unharmed, save for the merchant captain himself. He was pressing his rolled-up jacket to a bleeding cut in his stomach, wincing and giving Maklavir fearful and hated glances.

Kara looked to her right.