Avenger, page 30
part #2 of Swords and Skulls Series
Kalvium shoved a map in Vetra’s hand and pointed to a spot delineated on the border. “Crow canyon is the last contact point, fifteen leagues due south on the border of Lvendar and Galashad. A no-man’s land, the haunt of fierce hill tribes.”
Vetra edged past Basineus roughly and hopped on his horse. He spurred the mount off without a backward glance. Basineus followed, in a jaunty mood. The two cantered through the iron gates of the castle and rode out under a cloud of dust.
For a long time neither talked, both immersed in their own thoughts. Vetra particularly was unable to get the shocking image of Kealasa out of his head.
Their riding grew more intense, as they weaved between caravans and peddlers and locals bound for southern destinations. The sun grew hotter, dipped in the sky, a blazing copper disc. More than once Vetra caught Basineus’s jealous stare at his gleaming coat of mail that caught the sun’s rays and reflected it in a bluish, magical glitter.
“I feel like we’re being led by our noses to our doom.”
“Why, going soft, Vetra, old boy?” croaked Basineus, the smirk only widening on his leathery face.
“No, we don’t know what we are getting into. Kalvium is a trained spokesman, a master of words. He could have just shown us a nutcase with the pox.”
“Possibly, but for what purpose? Why are they paying us so much?”
Vetra stirred restlessly in his saddle as he negotiated the long grassy hill. “I still think old Ragnum needs more men for this mission. A bad feeling I get. It’s an odd thing that he only has selected two men for the job.”
Basineus blew air out of his cheeks. “A covert operation. Too many bodies attract attention. What with the Vizier’s daughter all poxed up like that. It’s a dicey matter for these high-borns, their citizens succumbing to the zombie juice. He doesn’t want to draw attention to his daughter being a user.”
Vetra’s sneer was less of an affirmation than a disparagement. “The worst case is that Ragnum doesn’t want witnesses after the fact. Our mission done—” Vetra made the gesture of a sword across his throat “—then so are we.”
Basineus’s hand gripped his scabbard. “The Lord Vizier? It’s a bad business killing the hired help. I guess we’ll see, come time to collect the rest of our loot.”
Vetra grew disinterested in Basineus’s talk. He scowled moodily at the surroundings, his thoughts restless ghosts in the trackless haze of his mind.
After a hard day of riding, the grasslands gave way to rolling, rugged hills. What little fields and passable crops on the meagre arable land they witnessed in the last leagues, came to an end. Now a dry barren landscape stretched in endless waves. Few words passed between Vetra and Basineus and the laconic exchanges they shared were in no way cordial.
The road ended in an abrupt dropoff overlooking a desolate, dry canyon. Low hills domed the space across the canyon, precursors to the mountains that ranged higher still. Vetra looked at the map. The ‘x’ marking a spot was west of their current location. Yet his intuition told him to put aside the map and his eyes strayed in the opposite direction—to the trail running east along the rim of the canyon.
“The end of the line?—maybe not...”
He urged his mount up the trail along the ridge, squinting in critical inspection.
“What about the map?” Basineus called after him.
Vetra ignored the question.
“I’m talking to you!” Basineus rode up to the other mount’s rump in anger. He paused, puzzled at Vetra’s choice of direction. He looked about him, as if the trail could lead somewhere, judging from the broken plant stems and overturned stones under the horses’ hoofs. They followed a zigzagging course at varying distances from the canyon until Basineus seemed hopelessly disoriented. After a time, Vetra halted with a scowl at the wheeling of carrion birds against the sky. Tumbled masonry and fallen blocks, and patches of blackened fire pits lay strewn about an open area. Below the canyon cut a sawtooth pattern through the primordial shale. They rode up a steep, lofty lookout and rested their labouring mounts while the sun was beginning to fall.
“I’m not liking the look of that ruined outpost over there,” Vetra said. He inclined his head. “Looks like barbarians took the torch to it.” He gestured to the blackened stone and charred timbers piled in rough heaps. Dismounting to investigate, he strolled down a ways where he found stone and wood cold to the touch. The reek of rotting flesh was thick in his nostrils. He grimaced. A barracks and garrison joined the charred outbuildings and several carcasses littered the area, all human. Some were riddled with arrows and bolts, others looked scavenged by birds of prey, or mauled by some animal.
“Big, whatever it was that chewed them,” Basineus muttered.
Vetra’s boots crunched on the dry gravel. The hoot of a screech owl echoed eerily from somewhere amidst the scraggly tamaracks at the foot of the adjacent hill. The agitated croak of a raven echoed high overhead.
Basineus descended from his mount and knelt, flinching. A long, two-foot print with four toes lay embedded in the soil, edges marred by rainfall, but deep enough to still be visible. He gestured at the prints that led away into the scrub, away from the ravine. Parallel scuff marks and trails of blood looked to be two human corpses dragged forth. To Dergath knew where.
“These bodies littered about are probably three weeks old,” Basineus mused.
Vetra looked around with renewed suspicion which grew to apprehension. A strange stillness hovered in the air. It did not fit well with the drowsy silence that lay thick with menace. He wondered what the hill peoples did up here, or what food they foraged. They lived on nothing but rabbits and snakes from what he had heard. He ran fingers through his tangled black hair.
Likewise, Basineus doffed his helm and wiped back his golden curls that framed his sweat-beaded brow. Vetra’s leather jerkin creaked as he got up from his crouch, reflecting upon the carnage that had passed. His high leather boots trod over the pebbles underfoot. Some of the bodies were those of hill savages, with long braided hair, feathered-headdresses, and fingers locked on axes carved of bone. But many were men from the cities: tall, proud, disfigured forms with armour and surcoats hacked—Behundrians and Lvendarian stock, he guessed, hose pale, eyeless faces gaped up in horror. No doubt members of the spy party sent to infiltrate the drug operators. But so many? The sinking sun glinted on the dented helms, broken breastplates and notched swords darkened with old blood.
“Why didn’t weapon mongers loot the area?” Basineus grumbled.
Vetra shrugged. “Kalvium said it was a no man’s land.” He chewed his lip. “No attempt to bury the corpses... Either there were no survivors, or they all up and left in a hell of a hurry.”
“Probably the latter,” grunted Basineus.
“Brilliant deduction,” came a coarse voice jeering out of the late afternoon shadows behind them.
Vetra wheeled. He saw a man in camouflaged leather on foot, stealthy as a panther, training a crossbow at them. Three men on sleek, black-haired horses came riding up over the ridge. Just as suddenly, their eyes cold and steel glinting in their hands. Vetra cursed as he squinted into the sun. He was too far from his mount to get the jump on either riders or footman. Basineus was likewise caught off guard. Steady hands trained bows on the two before they could draw weapons.
Vetra’s blade nonetheless slid out in a rasping shimmer. He cursed himself for his daydreaming.
The lead rider snarled at him, “Who are you, rogues? Speak, or be riddled with bolts.” He kneed his horse forward, his brow budded with dirt and sweat. His rooster red bristle of hair spiked up the middle of an otherwise bald scalp, and made him look like a barbarian chief of old. His flared, wide nose, flattened, broken a half dozen times was like a bull’s. But what the man lacked in looks he made up in muscle. Vetra perceived fine layers of it, judging from the bulges in his studded leather.
The rider motioned to the others to disarm the intruders. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”
“I’m Vetravincus,” Vetra said without warmth. “This is my associate, Basineus. Who are you? You in the habit of accosting innocent wayfarers?”
“Just call me the ‘Enforcer’ for now.”
“Enforcer,” Vetra mocked, his teeth bared in a sardonic grin. “We’re looking for a fellow by the name of Tas.”
The other barked out a coarse laugh. “Tas, is it? Well, you came to the right place. You’ll see him soon enough. He’ll be curious to see you too. Now move!”
They prodded the mercenaries down the crumbled path, the footman herding them along like cattle. The weapons, they examined with sinister interest, especially Basineus’s fancy crossbow. The mercenaries’ two horses, they towed along down a vague trail, which looked like a goat path that followed east along the ridge. The rocky canyon dropped to their right. To Vetra’s eye, nothing more than a dry gulch that had seen no rain for months, if not years.
Vetra conducted swift inspection of the unwanted company. Three others were unkempt, poorly groomed, with greasy, tousled hair. Leather was stained with blood. They were quiet, sullen ruffians, gaunt men from lack of proper nutrition, as if they hadn’t had a square meal for weeks. Hired bandits? No, the leader was purposeful, organized, confident, not simply an average ruthless cutthroat. Military-trained. Likely one of Tas’s captains, if any of them had survived that bloodbath.
A half second of opportunity arose. A blur of movement—Basineus tripped the captor behind, but unlucky for him stumbled on an upturned stone. A boot licked out and smashed him in the face. He scrambled to his feet, spitting blood, his fists clenched in a boxer’s stance, nose hooked on an unnatural angle.
Vetra lurched forward to follow up with an upward swing, but shook his head as a bow sprang up trained at his face. “None of that,” the leader’s henchman grunted, waving a warning finger toward the mercenary. “Little boys get themselves hurt when they play with fists.”
Vetra cursed. The sod Basineus had acted impulsively. They might have had a chance if the riders were not now alert.
“Tell your underling to wise up,” growled Enforcer.
“You heard him,” Vetra grunted at Basineus.
Basineus shook the blood out of his nose and lunged at Vetra, but was forced back at crossbow point. Vetra felt no compassion for Basineus’s bloodied up state. A fitting setback for the oaf and his arrogance.
While they navigated the steep ascent, Vetra gauged his opponents with a practiced eye. They were seasoned enough to keep some distance from him and Basineus, not foolish enough to stay bunched up. He played various manoeuvres over in his head: a quick leap under the lead rider’s mount, a snatch at the lax guard’s axe in his belt, a scrambling rush to take down as many men as possible.
He curled his lip. Too complex—and messy—and too wide a margin of error.
With cold frustration, he marched on.
Perhaps half an hour passed of stumbling along and being goaded at sword point through winding terrain, before they came to a cleared area. Vetra caught a whiff of fried meat, acrid smoke, burning dung. Stone blocks had been dragged over to fashion a crude outbuilding, a square hovel with logs and branches placed over the top for a roof. Two score men ranged about, sharpening weapons, repairing boots, banging pots. Some bent over cooking fires, heating blades—lean, wary-eyed men in mixtures of mail. They had rigged up a small smithy, where one man hammered on a piece of red hot metal. A pile of crude crossbow bolts lay to the side. Nothing more than a bandits’ lair, Vetra concluded.
A figure dressed in a dusty hauberk emerged from the stone hut, clutching a sheaf of arrows, an axe bobbing at his hip. Vetra saw he was a big man with tawny hair under a leather cap, a relaxed stance, like some big confident cat. He was chewing on a grass stick, conversing with his men. But Vetra knew better, the man was as hard as nails.
“Hoy Kraddus, your sloth is memorable,” the man called. “Took you longer to complete your rounds. Have you no shame?”
“Shame is not part of my vocabulary, Tas,” came the lead rider’s growl, “you should know that.”
“What have we here?” the man inquired.
“A couple of birds flew in to roost, courtesy of Lord Ragnum, I wouldn’t doubt.”
The big man chuckled. “Are you sure of that? They look more like hill thieves dressed as nobles, strayed too far from home. Or mercenaries having come into some unexpected spoils.”
“Spare me the character sketch,” retorted Vetra. “Either explain to us what all this ill-treatment is about or—”
“Or what?” Kraddus jeered, his face twisted in an unpleasant grin. “How be we put steel in your guts and leave you tied to a tree for the jackals to chew on?”
“He has a surly cast to him,” said another with a repellent flat face and dented steel cap. “Jackals are too good for him. I say we leave him to the trolls.”
“You on about trolls again, Nurus?” croaked Kraddus, shaking his head.
Tas waved his underlings off. Frowning, he rubbed his chin, as if in contemplation, then took in Vetra’s imperturbable bearing, as if he suddenly made a decision about both of them. “Excuse the rude lodgings, gentlemen, but we had to relocate in haste, as you can see, farther away from the original site than we had hoped.”
“After you nearly got us all killed,” jeered Kraddus.
“Shut your mouth,” Tas barked. He shifted his attention back to Vetra. “Your rude reception was only to err on the side of caution. One can never be too careful in such circumstances...” His eyes flicked on a fuming Basineus whose face was caked in blood. “Seems as if your aide got in a fight with the dirt, and lost. That or old Kraddus got too eager with his boots.”
Vetra gave a complacent nod. “Basineus’s known for his clumsiness.” He smirked, pleased for once that Basineus decided to keep his mouth shut; though his face had purpled and his eyes stared at him from under a ghastly mask of bruised and disfigured flesh.
The remark seemed to appease Kraddus and crew, and a smattering of chuckles and approving grunts rose from the gathered crowd.
The leader ignored the murmur. “So, you’re the fresh fish they sent from Lausern?”
Vetra bowed in mocking tribute. “None other.”
“Sorry to have treated you so poorly. But we are in the middle of a ‘situation’ here.”
Vetra frowned, struggling to bridle his irritation. “So, I’ve heard. Would be nice if you were to tell your employers. Would have saved us the trip up here.”
“Perhaps.” Tas made a negligent gesture. “Return them their weapons, Kraddus.” Curiously, he stared at the two again. “Well, get yourself cleaned up. Buckets are behind the armoury. A fresh spring up the hill. The armoury’s over there. We have weapons galore.” He strode past the open fire and pulled out a battle axe from the squared stone building. Vetra saw swords and knives of various sizes and shapes, axes of bronze and some carved of bone, and a stack of crossbows, mostly serviceable, but some with trigger arms damaged.
Basineus snatched up two curved daggers to complement his arsenal. Vetra reached out a hand and hefted one of the bigger battle axes.
“Ah, a man of the axe?” Tas said with a grin. “Get yourself equipped then. The ceremonial mail you’re wearing is thin as a woman’s shift, though it’s finely crafted. Your squire seems outfitted better than you.”
Vetra grinned. “It comes well-earned, and is hardly ceremonial. It’s invulnerable. Let’s just say a little elf gave it to me.”
Kraddus had chanced to stride up and overhear the boast. “And owls fly to the moon.”
Tas shook his head in wonder. “I find it hard to believe that delicate mesh is as formidable as you claim.”
Vetra shrugged. It seemed pointless to waste his breath.
“We have a meeting slated on the morrow with the drug lord, Grebu,” said Tas.
“Suicide, more like it,” muttered Nurus.
“Our archers will be behind us.”
“What’s left of them,” Kraddus said with snide emphasis.
“You needn’t remind me, Kraddus, nor do I need your constant impudence. The plan stands for now.”
“It’s a dumb plan,” Kraddus scoffed.
Tas rounded on him. “We made a pact, recall—with Ragnum. We’d flush out these monsters of his. If we wish to curry favour with our Vizier Lord, we cannot shirk our duty.”
Kraddus yelled back, “You already have done that, by keeping them in the dark. Look at these two jackals dogging our heels.” He jerked an insolent thumb to Vetra and Basineus. “Ready to put a knife in our ribs when we sleep.”
One lean hireling wearing an eye patch raised his voice. “He speaks truth.”
Burning eyes raked over the mercenaries; surly curses murmured under men’s breaths.
Basineus took a step backward, his hand reaching for his broadsword. A wolfish snarl spilled past his lips.
Vetra likewise braced himself for conflict. His inner sense told him that some action was required. “You fool! Do you think we mean to start a war with a superior force on our heels?”
The man who had spoken stepped back, embarrassed.
“Show some respect, you dogs,” called out Tas. “These men are guests—for now.”
Kraddus shook his head. “Better to lie with a wolf.” Others of the militia growled in agreement.
“If we’re not to be hunted like outlaws for deserting, we must follow through,” said Tas quietly. “The alternatives are not pleasant. Think about a life constantly on the run, never knowing when some bounty hunter might pluck you out of your bed, or plunge a knife into your heart. I want to get Grebu to sign the agreement. Then he’ll be bound to back off. Ragnum will get the rebel upstart of Galashad to sign it. Our task is then done. All of us can quit this dismal rock heap with impunity.”
