12
They
had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile before a cry went up. Another
consequence had been spotted, and this was called forwards and back.
Many of the riders looked at their leader warily, wondering what he
would do.
It
was another test of power, and one their leader disliked intensely.
He eyed the bound and bloodied prisoner with concern, but also stared
at the rope connecting him to one of the horses. The spare horses
were all weighed down with pieces of the dead, and it would take time
to adjust the load. Then he looked at the far riders and estimated
distance, before taking quick stock of his own troops.
“Leave
the angel. Everyone, bows out. We attack,” he declared and followed
his own instructions. He tucked the sword and knife into the
saddlebow and grabbed a wooden bow to replace his. Varad was suddenly
cut loose, and the spare horses were left. Then the mass of them
charged off across the plains, shrieking.
Immediately,
the other consequence began to yell in kind. They too readied their
bows and charged as well, until only a half mile separated the two
packs. At once they broke off, circling. The riders of the Noonday
Sun raced at their enemies, but shifted direction at random while the
others flung a sheet of arrows at them. Most of these missed, and the
Noonday Sun retreated, howling jeers and taunts. Now the men were
fully behind their master, and ignored his previous falter at command
as he ignored the effect of Varad's sword.
Their
enemies darted around, and the two groups circled each other,
contesting for position. Then suddenly the newcomers broke off into
two wings that spread wide while the Noonday Sun came up the center.
Instantly the bigger group picked one wing and charged them, while
their chosen target fled and the other half of the group rushed the
others from behind. They thundered across the plains like that, with
the consequence of Varad's captors gaining on their prey slowly. They
seemed to be slightly faster until without warning the forward party
suddenly redoubled their speed when they were just beyond a bowshot
ahead.
Simultaneously,
one of their number dropped from his horse and charged back, notching
an arrow as the Noonday Sun horde charged. They were so close the
riders barely had time to send a volley, and most of those arrows
missed. A few did not, but they stuck in the runner's flesh without
stopping him. He pulled a black arrow to full extension at his own
black bow, almost identical to the one possessed by the horned lord
Varad had just fought. It shot forward, dead into the skull of the
Fradick's second horse. The horse's head exploded in gore.
It
split the equine skull like rotten tinder and carried through into
the rider's gaping chest wound. Even as the horse crumpled and died,
the horned one was thrown backwards to plummet to the dirt. Instantly
his followers rode him down, and trampled his body. Then they divided
hard to avoid the runner and scattered in all directions. At once the
other pack scattered as well, chasing after them. In an instant, the
walking bowman was alone on the plain with his target.
Gurgling,
his target arose, even more injured but still not dead. The other
smiled and drew aside his robes, revealing that he was crowned and
spurred through the flesh much as the other. Then the newcomer shot
his enemy in the chest, then once in each leg, then again in the
shoulder. Arrows sank to the fletching, but did not kill. The injured
one charged barehanded, while the other fired until his quiver was
dry, putting another dozen cloth yards through his enemy. Then they
collided like wild fires.
They
beat each other with fists and feet until the ground was torn worse
then from the passage of the cavalry. For several minutes there was
just a remorseless, ceaseless barrage between them. Neither died or
stumbled. Yet the match wasn't equal. The horned one Varad had
slashed was waning, from his vast gaping wounds, multiple
impalements, and as he slipped he took worse and worse beatings.
Finally he went down, and the other jumped on his chest and began
beating him in the throat, tearing flesh with his sharpened spurs.
For a long while he just kept going, flailing away with steadily
weakening movements, until the other bashed his throat almost to
decapitation. Then his head stayed attached only by the spine, and
with twisting and grinding, the other broke that too.
“You
will make many excellent weapons,” the victor gloated, standing up
in gore and mud with a fist through the head's hair. It glared at him
while he spoke, even as its dying eyes glazed over. “I will burn
your bones down to ore, and smelt you into bows and swords. Know that
after you die, your body will serve me, and I will kill all your
people and eat them.” Then he spat full on the head's face and beat
it into the ground to ensure dead Fradick's last memory was defeat.
After
that the champion trudged over to the loser's remains and discarded
the head atop them. Next he searched the dead horse and checked it
over. He noted the bow with the severed string and took it. He also
noted the two blades, and took them as well. There was not much else
of value, so the victor pissed on the dead horse for pure spite and
waited.
It
was not long before his own minions returned. They had chased the
fleeing riders across the plains but not caught any. The corpse
bearing horses of the Noonday Sun fallen had also been spotted, and
so the riders of this group had come to find Varad. For his part he
had managed to bite through the ropes on his wrists but been seized
again before gnawing free his legs. Thus he came to his next horned
captor.
“Excellent,”
the victor pronounced, seeing his spoils. “Notice how all here were
men? We will release the horse and beat them until they run to their
homes. Take the people, but do not kill more then is necessary. I
will eat the dead tonight with this one,” he decided pointing at
Varad.
“So
you don't want the ransom?” Varad asked, having thought of a gambit
during his moment of freedom.
“What
ransom?”
“The
ransom for me. That one-” Varad lolled his head weakly at the
defeated master, “-intended to send my sword as a token of my
identity to the Red Chapterhouse at Tyr. All men know the Red Guard
will pay a soldier's weight in steel for one of their own.”
“Who
are you?” the victor asked, pausing in his gloating.
“Varad
of the Red Guard,” his prisoner answered, demoting himself by
omitting the honorary Al.
The
captor thought about that for a moment. “I have heard something of
this. Your weight, you say?”
“In
fine steel. My weight upon delivery, as an incentive to treat me well
and feed me,” Varad agreed. He felt like a whore, rushing to resume
the red cloak the moment it suited his purpose.
“I
have heard something about this,” the other said again. “But why
should I trust your words?”
“Because
you've heard something of it before. The Red Guard never betrays this
deal and encourage you to tell the tale among yourselves to gloat.
You will have heard of it with boasting. This way you can be sure of
your reward.”
Flush
with triumph, the captor looked over at the body of his foe. It was
visibly calcifying with a black rot that crept up over the flesh.
Parts of it were pure, midnight black, while other's were a rusty
red. The corpse had turned to a nightmarish thing from an already
vile sight. Yet another man's weight in fine northern steel would be
another excellent prize. “Unlooked for this intrigues me.”
“You
must send them the sword,” Varad emphasized. “Otherwise they may
not trust you. Send the sword by messenger to Tyr, and they will tell
you where to come for the exchange.”
“Why
the sword?”
“It
is known to them. We are all known by our blades.”
The
thought of giving up such a fine weapon was distasteful to him, but a
memory of some mention of this wormed through his brain. He nodded.
“It will be done. I am Lrok, and you will me rich, Varad.”
“You
will be as rich as I weigh. Remember that,” Varad replied and
stopped trying to look competent. At once he crumpled into a heap.
“And
I will make you fat. You, break his legs so he can't run, then tied
him to a horse.” Lrok decided, and ordered one of his men.
“Of
course,” the man replied, and with that Lrok lost interest. He
turned his
He
grabbed one of Varad's shins to find that it was already broken and
wiggled when he yanked it. Varad broke out sweating. That was enough
for the rider, and he heaved the prisoner onto a pack beast and bound
him there.
The
next weeks were very placid. Lrok lead his followers, called the
Consequence of Sudden Conflict across the plains. Nothing was as flat
as it looked from above. The ground looked like the surface of a huge
pot of water, caught in the moment of boiling, and then covered with
gold and green grass. Here and there rough piles of rock shouldered
up above the grass, and their presence could be seen in other vast
hills with strange shapes and running shoulders. Between the dells
were hills with steep sides and sharp drops, though rarely of more
elevation than a hundred feet.
Lrok
lead his horsemen warily. Most rode at least a dozen feet apart, and
kept themselves ranged about the rough countryside so that no great
number of them were ever together in the lowlands. Avoiding the
erratic heaps of dark stone, they moved generally westward across the
plains.
Ultimately
their destination was one such pile of naked rock. It sat in a wide
lowland between two shallow hills, filled to both sides with brown
cattle. More horsemen sat on top both rises, silent in the high
grass. Those grasses broke up their silhouettes, and they kept their
horses tethered within reach but a little downhill. Lrok's riders
came together into a pack as they dropped into a cleft that lead to
the herds. By the time they came to the cattle, perhaps a hundred and
fifty people were waiting for them. Most were women and children, but
several old men were there as well. All looked to be in good health.
Ignoring
them, the horned lord dismounted, and went to Fradick's corpse. He
untied it from the dozen horses who had been dragging it along and
heaved the body up to his shoulders. It stayed rigid with clumps of
dirt and grass sticking out here and there.
“We
found one of my brothers, and I killed him,” Lrok declared, heaving
the body up so that it could be seen. The thing had solidified more
since the fight, and now it was pure black metal save where the
bodily fluids had been. These ran with rust, and formed red rivulets,
indistinguishable from blood. Lrok was holding it over his head
straight armed, and underneath his feet the soil was compacting
beneath the great weight. Some of the people looked, but most averted
their eyes in silence. They looked tired.
After
a few moments, he dropped the metal corpse to his shoulders and
trudged off towards the rocks. “Make the forges ready. As soon as
it gets dark, we will smelt the dead.”
Once
he was away, the women and children joined the men. It was a very
subdued reunion with no tears or loud voices. Afterwards they parted
in small groups and went back to the rocks after Lrok.
Two
riders pulled Varad off the pack horse and dragged him after the
others. They took him between two great boulders where a narrow
doorway was cut in the earth. Inside was a small room dug out of the
earth. There was nothing there but a wooden bed, jammed against one
wall.
“You
might be able to try to escape or wander off,” one of the two said,
releasing Varad's arm so he could drop, face first into the dirt.
“Don't. It will not go well, and there is no escape.” He sounded
tired as well, as exhausted as the faces of the women had been.
Neither of the two said anything else, and left immediately. There
was no door to look and bar behind them.
On
hands and knees the broken swordsman dragged himself to the bed and
rolled in. The frame was seven pieces of wood, four for a rectangular
frame and three legs. It wobbled under his weight. Fighting off a
tiredness as deep as what the horsemen had exhibited, Varad rolled
his shoulders a few times. They were sore and muscles had been
bruised, but nothing felt broken. Then he checked his legs.
Both
were broken in the shin. The breaks were closed, with no fragments
jutting through the skin. He was cut in many places on both legs, but
those were the effects of the dragging. Varad looked around, getting
an idea of what he had to work with, and found only dirt, rocks, and
the single wobbly bed. With a sigh, he pulled the legs off the bed
and did what he had to do.
It
was extraordinarily painful. The muscles had contracted, pulling the
broken bits of bone up past the break. Thus he had yank his feet away
from him while pressing his thighs to his chest, and then hold the
separation while binding them to the wooden bed legs. A couple of
times he couldn't see through the tears and gloom, but had to operate
by feel in the dark. In the end it got finished, and Varad slept,
knowing nothing of what else happened that night.
When
he woke up someone had deposited two bowls by his door. One held
water, cold and wonderful, while the other was mostly meat with roots
and something vaguely rice-like as well. Varad ate and drank before
returning to a deep, dreamless sleep. His entire body hurt, but he
was too tired to care.
“Wake
up.”
The
words snapped through his sleep. He suddenly flashed awake, to see
two shadows in the doorway, outlines against the stars.
“Lrok
wants you to see something. Get up and come along,” it was the same
one who spoke before. He was the one standing on the right. It wasn't
the man who'd warned him against attempting to flee, but his words
had the same tired tone.
“I
can't stand. Lrok had my legs broken,” Varad replied. He grabbed
the wall and bedframe, and levered himself upright.
“Walk
or we drag you,” the other stated. His words too were flat, devoid
of emotion. There was no commensurate hostility to go with the
threat.
“It
will be easier to carry than drag me,” Varad suggested.
“We
weren't told to carry you, just bring you,” the first speaker
replied. His words were flat with apathy.
“Faster
too,” Varad added, almost pleading. “Lrok wouldn't want to be
kept waiting.”
“He'll
wait if he knows it's because we're dragging you across the dirt,”
the second speaker retorted.
“He'd
like that,” the first agreed.
“Oh,
please no,” Varad whispered and was dragged away. When they dropped
his arms, he was very pale and lay still.
“Red
guard, wake up and see this,” bellowed Lrok. Eventually his captive
did.
Lrok
was standing between two huge standing stones. Behind him the gap had
been plugged with clay, and against one of the monoliths was a clay
furnace. Waves of heat poured out of it, causing the air to ripple
like flowing water. The stones themselves had been seared black.
The
huge, horned man stood directly before the door to the furnace. His
clothing, singed around the edges, hung still in the heat. The huge
figure did not seem to be sweating at all. Before him was a flat
topped rock that rose to the height of his hips. On top of that was a
dark mound, and it took several seconds for Varad to figure out that
it was Fradick.
“Before
I send you back to your people, I want to to witness this. Fradick
died at my hands. Tell stories of it. Tell the world.”
Then
Lrok dragged the carcass across the stone until it was almost within
the flames. The clay furnace had an opening on the side, seemingly
exactly for this purpose, and with tongs he shoved the dead the rest
of the way in. Afterwards Lrok stepped aside, and walked back to the
injured man.
“Now,
you said I must send your sword back first. Your people will know
it?” he demanded. Lrok had twisted, proud voice that wasn't
constantly any single pitch.
“Yes,”
Varad said quietly. “They will know it by the blade and the
pommel.”
“Is
it named?”
Varad
considered lying but couldn't see any advantage to it. “The Song of
Winter,” he finally answered.
“A
stupid name,” Lrok judged and returned to the blazing heat of his
smithy. With his tongs he reached into the fire, and withdrew a
sword, glowing cherry red. He held it up slowly, that Varad could
fully recognize it and understand what was coming. Then he dropped it
onto the rock and took a hammer. Immediately he began to pummel away
at the junction of blade and handle, and after a few blows it snapped
into pieces. He knocked them off the stone, and let them lay in the
dirt.
“They'll
get the blade and pommel,” Lrok said, pleased with himself. “Just
not attached. And you won't be using this again.”
Varad
watched hollow-hearted. Outside the white glow of the furnace, the
world was very dark with night. In the light of the fire the stars
were invisible. For the first time he felt alone.
“Drag
him back to his bed, then feed him again,” Lrok ordered the two
guards, who had remained back. “He looks pale, and we want him to
gain weight.”
They
did. Varad didn't remember it. Nor did he remember crawling into bed,
nor sleeping or waking again. Sometimes there was food before him.
Time passed, but nothing changed.
