The Mercenary Trilogy Boxed Set, page 14
part #1 of The Mercenary Series
***
They waited three days until the first scouts came back, led by an excited Delemar. “They’re here,” Del shouted as Taskala emerged from his tent, his broad face buried in soap and a steel razor in his hand.
“How many?” the swordmaster said in a growl.
“Fifty or so, all of them mounted. I suspect there are more on the way. Think you we should wait and let them gather?”
“I’ve waited long enough.” Taskala wiped his face clean and reached for his shirt. “We ride west on the hour!” He yelled so that most in the camp could hear.
“Everyone?” Delemar rubbed grit from his eyes and looked at the swordmaster askance. “I thought Halfdan’s orders were to wait for the Bears and then crush any rebels we find in a pincer movement.”
“Yeah, right.” Taskala pulled his shirt over his sinewy frame as Del and the other scouts watched him from their horses. “We have to pin the snake down first. Cut off Barakani’s head and the tribes will scatter. To make that happen, we need knowledge of Barakani’s whereabouts. And we’ll only get that from questioning some of his men. Those fifty nomads will serve the purpose nicely. They might be tough, but the hot knife will soon loosen tongues. We’ll catch up with them before they meet up with any friends. Kill all save a few that we put to the knife. Anyone have a problem with that?” Nobody spoke.
“I’ll lead the assault myself, along with a hundred volunteers. The rest of you will break camp and follow behind with supplies and equipment.”
***
“I say let him go,” Corin muttered. “Let Taskala have his victory. Besides, I never volunteer. It’s asking for trouble. Why should we endanger our lives in some reckless chase? Those canny fuckers will be expecting something like this.”
“But we’ve got to, Corin, else we’ll miss out.” Darrel had just arrived with the main force and found his old friend seated on a log, alongside Yazrana and Scolly. “And we’re always in the thick of it. We’re Wolves; it’s what we do.”
“I keep telling him that, but he won’t listen,” Rana said. Corin gave her a sharp look. “It’s the truth,” Rana added.
“You’ve been away too long, Darrel,” Corin said. “Things have gotten complicated. Some of us have been working while you lot were dozing up there in Point Keep. I know how these nomads operate. They’re crafty. I say we will be riding into a trap.”
“Well, let’s keep our eyes open,” Rana added. “I agree with Corin and have a bad feeling about this, but Taskala’s right too. We need the information prisoners will provide. So I suggest you two stop quibbling and get ready for a long, hard ride.”
They left a half hour later, Corin and his friends riding toward the rear of the column. Taskala set a grueling pace for his hundred volunteers, a steady trot that had the horses shiny with sweat after only a few miles. But Taskala’s instinct proved correct, and by midmorning they had caught up with the riders.
A shout went up, and the nomads, having gotten wind of pursuit, urged their mounts to gallop toward a low range of hills. Corin recognized the place and had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Craggy Corners—I fucking knew it. I’m not liking this!” He yelled across to Rana, who glared back at him and shook her head.
“The ravine—you were right, Corin. Glad I’ve got my steel vest on!”
They closed the gap on the enemy riders, whose mounts were tiring fast and would surely falter in a few minutes. At the front, Taskala unslung his horn bow from his saddle sheath and expertly nocked and loosed an arrow. Those around him cheered as the shaft struck one of the stragglers ahead, and the nomad’s body pitched into the dust bedside the road.
Taskala grinned and let loose another arrow. A second tribesman fell from his horse. “We have them, lads!” Taskala kicked his mount, stowed his bow, and unsheathed the saber at his side. “Now—harvesttime!”
The Wolf volunteers caught up with their quarry just as the brown hills split neatly into two steep cliffs, as though a giant knife had sliced through them. Between those heights wound a long ravine, the rocks hanging over and freshly fallen shale spoiling the road surface and making any good speed treacherous.
Seeing the state of the road, Taskala raised his hand in warning, and his riders eased back on their steeds. Ahead, the nomads were panicking and fleeing as best they could. Taskala’s riders were almost upon them as they urged their horses into the narrows known as Craggy Corners. Corin looked up at the nearest ridge, squinting as the sun dazzled his vision.
Then he saw it. Movement. Hardly more than a blur but enough to justify his worst fears. They were riding into a trap, and it was closing on them fast. “Keep your head down!” Corin shouted to Rana, as she looked up and saw figures running along the ridges on either side of the road. That was when the first arrows whistled down upon them—a storm of buzzing, whining shafts that bit horse and rider and soon had Corin, Rana, and all those around them dismounting and jumping for cover.
The arrows kept coming. Corin guessed there must have been more than a hundred archers up there, and Taskala’s volunteers were trapped like bugs in a jar. He cursed the swordmaster as he dived behind a large rock and slid Clouter free from its harness.
Two hundred yards ahead, Taskala caught up with the fleeing nomads and in his rage started butchering everyone in reach, his men following suit, Delemar and Scolly included.
“Get up on that ridge and deal with those fucking archers!” The swordmaster motioned to the two veterans to scramble up the shale to their left, taking as many men with them as dared follow.
***
“Keep close behind me!” Scolly hissed as he clambered up the slope, his fingers pierced by thorns and rocks coming loose in his hands. They reached the crest and fell upon the nearest archers, killing a dozen before their comrades on the other ridge noticed the attack and starting loosing shafts.
Del fell with an arrow through his right eye. Scolly cut down four more archers, and then tripped and tumbled from the ridge, breaking a leg in his fall. A few of the archers followed and found him lying on a rock nursing his leg. Scolly killed a couple before the others worked their blades upon him, their leader cutting his heart out and tossing it off the ridge.
***
Taskala sat his horse and stared back along his column. Del and Scolly’s valiant sortie had distracted the archers above him, but further back the Wolves were taking heavy losses.
“Stand firm!” Taskala yelled to those surrounding him. “We can fight our way out of this!” He sat his horse, oblivious to the chaos around him, and slowly a smile spread across his lips as he now knew what to do.
“This should see the pair of them slain,” Taskala muttered under his breath. He could hear Corin an Fol screaming his name amid abuse from somewhere back in the ravine. Yazrana would be with him, and soon they’d both be dead. Taskala grinned; he couldn’t have planned it better.
“We cannot help them,” Taskala shouted to those nearby. “We’d best find safety for ourselves and avenge our fallen brothers later. Ride, lads, before the archers find us too!”
***
Behind the swordmaster, Greggan and Darrel stared in horror as their leader urged his beast forward along the ravine, soon vanishing from sight.
“We can’t abandon Corin and the others!” Darrel wheeled his horse around and cantered back to help his friend.
Darrel didn’t get very far. An arrow pierced his shoulder and sent him sprawling from his horse. He tried to stand but was struck down by three more shafts, the third piercing his heart. He fell onto his back, his dead blue eyes gazing up at the sun.
Greggan, witnessing Darrel’s death and seeing nothing but ruin, cried out in anguish, “I’m sorry!” In despair, he wheeled his mount about and followed the other riders fleeing the trap.
***
Corin could see the swordmaster turning his mount around and fleeing from the Trap. “Help us, you bastard!” Corin yelled, then ducked as an arrow scudded into the dirt inches from his hide. Rana rolled across to where Corin lay. Horrified, he noted the arrow sticking through her left thigh. Rana shrugged. “I won’t be running anywhere soon. That bastard Taskala . . .”
“Betrayed us.” Corin nodded and swore to himself that he would survive this terrible day just to settle that debt. “Can you hobble? Don’t worry if not. I think they’ll run out of arrows soon, then I’ll carry you and we can—”
A second arrow thudded into Rana’s chest, piercing her chain mail.
“They’ve got bodkins,” Rana choked as blood filled her mouth. “I think . . . you better leave without me, Corin.”
“Never!” He stroked her face and gently kissed her forehead. “I love you,” Corin told her. Rana smiled, but Corin knew she was dying, and sudden rage surged like wildfire inside him.
He leaped to his feet, Clouter swinging in a wide arc as the first nomads emerged from their hides above and came crashing down upon them. The archers had done their work, and now spear, scimitar, and tulwar would mop up the rest.
Rana tried to rise, but a third arrow ripped into her stomach, and she let out a long slow moan. “Kill . . . Taskala for me.” She choked the words out. “I do . . . love you, Corin an Fol.”
Corin dispatched the first attackers and turned to reply. It was too late. Rana was dead, her almond eyes glazed over and her face oddly peaceful beneath the scorching heat of the noonday sun.
A burning, soaring madness gave Corin abnormal strength and took away any whisper of fear. Clouter felt featherlight in his bloodied hands as he turned, eyes blazing, and fell upon those surrounding him. The berserkergang, they call it in the north. That wild random fury that only a few warriors possess. Fury and loathing, and a kind of absence from reality. Corin felt no pain and knew no fear. It was though he were viewing himself through a mirror, as a man watches actors in a mummers play.
The berserkergang awarded alien strength and power to those under its sway. Some said it was a gift of the gods. And on that day it found Corin an Fol.
Screams, sobs, cries begging for mercy—Corin ignored them all as he swung Clouter back and forth with pendulum precision, hewing limbs from bodies and heads from necks. He fell once but rolled up so quickly that the three leaping at him were taken unawares and swiftly cut to pieces. He fought thus for over an hour while the rest of his comrades fell one by one, to enemy scimitar, tulwar, and spear.
At last a crafty thrust got through his guard, and then another blow knocked the helmet from his head. Corin’s feet left the dirt, and he was vaguely aware of his back crashing hard onto the road surface. He squinted in the sunlight, and for the briefest glimmer of a moment thought he saw a red-haired woman smiling at him as she sat on a rock close by.
You cannot save me this time . . .
Then they were upon him, and Corin an Fol knew no more.
Chapter 15 | Flies and Vultures
Haran watched as his men dispatched the last of the northerners. In a way he admired these foreign Wolf fighters. Brave and tough, but let down by their commanders, who had no concept of how to win this war. It was all politics, of course. But Barakani had long studied that game, and where another man would have rushed to avenge his kin, Haran’s war chief had bided his time.
Barakani knew the sultan would secure more aid from the north. But he also knew that aid would soon dry up. Barakani had new friends in Raleen who were working on that. Haran had no doubt the tide was turning in their favor. Patience was the key.
The warrior chief stepped over the pile of corpses as he approached his men, who were currently crouching and slicing the throats of any still living.
“This one took some killing.” Somal showed his toothless grin as Haran looked down at a tall northerner sprawled on his back, his face drenched in blood and a huge sword still gripped in his hands. “Best make sure.” Somal crouched with crooked knife and grabbed the dead man’s hair, yanking it back and exposing his throat. “He’s still breathing.” Somal grinned. “But not for long.”
“Wait.” Haran raised his palm, and Somal gazed up at him with curious eyes. “Let the desert finish him. We’ve killed enough men today.”
Somal shrugged and stowed his knife. Haran watched Somal join the others and ready their mounts for swift departure. He knelt beside the young warrior with the huge sword. “Hey, Wolf. You did well today, and if you’re as tough as I think you might be, then you might just survive. It’s unlikely, but if you do, then go home, northerner. This is not your fight.”
Haran looked up at the sky, where the vultures were circling more than a hundred strong. A strange whim it was, sparing this boy. Be far kinder to have slit his throat.
Moments later he joined his men, and together they rode west apace throughout the rest of that wonderful day. The tide was turning, and Barakani was the name it carried.
***
It was thirst that woke him. That, and the large vulture tearing at his face. Corin swatted the bird aside and groaned as pain shot up his arm. The vulture hopped backward and stared at him balefully. Corin spat at the bird, and it took sudden wing and settled feet away to feed on a corpse. No doubt it would return soon and try again. Wounded and alone, humans didn’t last long out here. But Corin was determined to disappoint the vulture. He wasn't planning on dying anytime soon.
He rolled to his side, groaned again, and then in a clumsy motion that made his entire body shake with agony, he sat up and glared at the vulture now back again and hopping closer. “Piss off.” The bird hopped backward again but lingered despite Corin’s withering stare.
“You’re out of luck, ya ugly bastard.” Corin turned to see Rana’s ravaged, twisted body, the three arrows sticking out at different angles, and the wide pool of blood crawling with flies and ants.
“Fucking things.” Corin swiped at the insects as rage, and finally tears, shook his body. He was alive by some miracle or curse, though everyone around him was dead.
Corin checked his body. His chain mail and leathers had saved him from being gored in several places, and somehow he’d avoided being pinned by arrows. He retrieved a shaft stuck in the dirt and yanked it loose. Rana had been right—the bodkin point was meant to piece armor. Such arrowheads were expensive and hard to acquire. How the nomads had gotten their hands on them, Corin had no idea.
He felt sick and weak, and he knew if he didn’t find water fast, the vulture or one of its companions would claim its prize.
Somehow Corin staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on Clouter. After a minutes of swaying, he found enough strength to stagger across to his horse, which was lying dead close by with a cluster of arrows sticking from its hide. Corin reached down for the saddle and pulled his water canister free. It was almost full, and he downed the warm brackish contents in wild gulps, almost choking and throwing up the contents onto the ground.
He sat there for long moments shaking and sobbing, thinking of Rana lying close by and all his comrades, sightless and flesh pecked dry by the noisy cluster of creeping, hopping birds. The ravine stank of death, shit, and betrayal. One word kept Corin breathing. Revenge.
Giddy, Corin sank to his knees. He needed rest and shelter. He wasn’t badly hurt, despite being a mass of bruises, but any small wound could get infected easily. With that in mind, he staggered along the death trail, seeing many faces he recognized. Rigan’s body was badly hacked, his severed head close by, and he found Sleagon too. The latter had his arms locked around a dead nomad. On closer inspection Corin saw that Sleagon had snapped the man’s neck while his enemy had stabbed him in the side.
Corin gathered as many water canisters as he could find, taking careful sips as he staggered amid corpses, crows, and vultures, the flies buzzing around his face. He drank slowly, making sure he kept the liquid down. As he walked, the vultures perched on the corpses, eyeing him warily. Corin didn’t hate the birds. They were just doing their job. Plenty of time for hatred later. Survival was priority today.
Corin walked on, exhaustion and his battered body slowing his mind, but ever present was the urge to recover and then avenge the woman he loved.
It had hurt him to leave Yazrana lying there, but there was nothing he could have done for her. At least she was at peace now. In oblivion, or whatever afterlife the Permians subscribed to. Rana would live in Corin’s memory from now on.
Shortly before dusk, Corin reached the last corpses and stopped when he saw Darrel’s sunny blue eyes gazing up at him. “Not so talkative now, my friend.” Corin knelt down and gently closed Darrel’s eyes. “Be at peace; you were a good lad.” He stood and with eyes moist left the last of the corpses behind.
***
Night found Corin sheltered beneath a large rock, the stars studding the sky above his head and a cold breeze finding gaps in his tattered cloak. He had a small fire going, having recovered flint and stone from one of the horse’s packs and brush wood from close by. He’d consumed a small amount of salted pork, which some sensible rider had stowed just in case. It wasn’t much but would keep him alive.
And Corin needed to stay alive. He had a job to do. There was a man he intended to kill, and before he did that Corin needed his full strength back. He slept for a time, waking as dawn paled the east.
Weak and aching yet fueled by hatred, Corin started the long hot walk back to the city. It was more than twenty miles to Cappel Cormac, and in his battered state the walk took him three days. Now and then he had to jump aside and find hideouts in the shrubs as enemy horsemen rode past. At last, half starved and hobbling and leaning heavily on his longsword, Corin found the coffeehouse and staggered through the door. He hoped things hadn’t changed and these were still the only people in Permio who weren’t his enemies.
The girl with the hummingbird tattoo on her cheek saw Corin stagger into the taproom. She rushed over to support him, and Corin grinned at her, recalling her name: Tysha. One of the several cleaners employed by the coffeehouse owner.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Tysha found a damp cloth and wiped the blood from Corin’s face. “Looks like the Djinn demons set upon you.” She helped him to sit at a table.
