Mordraud, Book One Read online

  Gwern didn’t want to remember those years. Neither of them did.

  It had all started back then, when they were still children.

  “It’s been twenty years since Mordraud’s death,” uttered Gwern, with a sigh lacking in emotion.

  “Yes, it has,” replied Dunwich, in a quiet voice.

  I

  ...I knew I was born to this world to find something

  still concealed from man’s eyes.

  I look at the sea while seated at the bow of my small boat,

  and it all seems so vast and, at the same time, so near.

  Does a Limit exist, beyond the horizon?

  Is there a Limit for men, one nobody has yet found?

  But how can the invisible be found?

  How can the end of an infinite road be reached?

  “Another one down.”

  The bow string vibrated in pleasing harmony with the last breath of the Khartiar at the foot of the tree. He’d seen him trudge in the forest, shabby and filthier than a beast, as he dragged himself through the twisted roots, stumbling when his cracked armour caught in the branches.

  Slow. Unaware. Hateful beyond bearing.

  “One Khartiar less,” Aris hissed in satisfaction as he notched yet another arrow. He had a full quiver, an almost new bottle of Aniria and, above all, a great desire to clean things up a bit.

  The hunt had just begun.

  “There must have been a battle beyond the crest of the hill,” said Memion, who was waiting on a nearby branch, bow in hand. Aris had been faster, as he always was. But Memion wasn’t holding a grudge – there’d be other good chances. What really counted was to make sure the Khartiars didn’t find the village.

  “We should send someone to check there are no survivors on the field,” replied Aris. Two fellow fighters leapt down from the trees at once and ran silently off into the forest. Not one foe was to make it home that night, he thought, savouring the idea.

  “The Khartiars are like rats.”

  “That’s right. They all need to be wiped out, otherwise they’ll start breeding again as soon as they can...” Memion replied, chuckling. An old Aelian saying. Once before they’d made the mistake of tolerating the Khartiar presence, and they were still paying the price. They’d have to pay forever: the Aelians’ history had been at its twilight for too long now.

  “After an endless night, a sunless dawn...” Aris mumbled, sadly. Some rustling suddenly caught his attention. He raised his bow, pulled back the string, but Memion was swifter than him. An arrow sliced through the darkness, embedding itself in the forehead of a Khartiar in an even worse state than the previous one. He no longer had his breastplate, and a sword blade had left a broad bloody smile gaping between his bottom ribs. He was losing a hideous amount of blood. Almost an act of mercy, reflected Aris in annoyance.

  There should be no mercy for the Khartiars. None at all.

  “Nice shot.”

  Memion thanked him with a nod. Aris was younger than him, but already very good with his bow. There was just one difference.

  It was the first time he’d hunted the Khartiars.

  There’d been no shortage of opportunities for taking up arms since the war had started. Like during a now remote past, when the Aelians had tried to seize back what had once been theirs. It was the early years after the Endless Night. Shaken and bewildered, and without a trace of group organisation, the Aelians had hurled themselves randomly at the emerging Khartiar world. Too late, and too few of them. The Endless Night hadn’t much weakened those fragile bastards, while his people had been literally exterminated by the darkness, and the few survivors never fully recovered from what had happened.

  The day the sun had died beyond the horizon.

  The ancient fathers did nothing to prevent the Khartiars from taking possession of their abandoned cities, their ministries and their squares. And so, the onerous task of embarking on a hapless recapture was left to their descendents. The elders watched the fall of the Empire with the drained desire and blind eyes of those who had seen things too painful to describe or narrate. All failed, Aris mulled. The attempts to claim back Cambria. Their pride downtrodden and buried in those boggy forests. That night hadn’t been talked about for centuries. Almost all the details had been entirely forgotten. Cambiryon alone still insisted on wheedling an answer out of the elders, Aris reminded himself with an amused smirk. That arrogant noble blood.

  ‘We tried it many years ago... But the Khartiars are like rats...’ reflected Aris, as he slackened the tension on the string. He was just a grandson of that wretched generation of Aelians, and he held no memory of what his people had suffered when the Khartiars had laid the final stone on any intentions they might have for retaliation. Yet the hatred had survived the centuries.

  Undisturbed. And swelled out of all proportion.

  He shouldn’t tire himself without reason. He wanted to go home that night with his eyes steeped in blood and his ears ringing with death throes.

  “Aris, look, down there... Two more,” Memion whispered to him.

  “Two together?! Where?”

  “Behind that oak.”

  Aris licked the feathers of his arrow, gauged its weight, then loaded it again on the strand of horsehair.

  “One’s yours... The other’s mine.”

  ***

  Varno was staring at the back of the young man not far from him. He must have been about his age. He didn’t remember him, he hadn’t seen him on the field and the man hadn’t been near him when the cavalry charged their ranks. His face was contorted in pain and rage, white as a handful of snow. Blood mingled with earth was flowing from the mangled stump that had once been his right arm.

  For a moment – just one – he’d truly believed in him. On foot against a horseman. Armed with merely a blunt dagger. One of the few soldiers left in his regiment.

  He’d been wrong.

  His cries faded away only when a spear tip punctured his forehead. Yet silence did not return. The earth itself seemed to groan with hundreds of mouths gaping towards the skies.

  Varno could recall little of the battle. He and his comrades had been put in the front ranks, as always. The place awarded by right to mercenaries – there was no use protesting. The clash between the two fronts had been sudden and brutal, an overwhelming tidal wave. He’d seen that cursed horseman head for him, stare at him from behind the helmet visor, take aim and strike him full on like a target in a joust. He’d felt the rocks scrape his back, and the skies took the place of the ground, until a tree brought his flight to a halt. The lance had gone in above his shoulder-strap, shattering his collar-bone. The blow hadn’t killed him.

  He’d been lucky.

  The rider left the lance where it was after unsuccessfully tugging at it a couple of times. It was embedded deep in the tree trunk, leaving him hanging there, like a rag put out to dry. Varno hadn’t even pulled out his sword. And to think he’d paid good money for it, he considered in weary irony.

  He should have heeded his father, when he’d told him he’d be better off tilling the fields and finding himself a good woman to settle down with, and have children, a roof over their heads and food to eat. Wise words. But his village was small, and the towns too expensive and too far away. And not even the shadow of available women. Varno wanted to make something of himself, but he hadn’t the faintest idea where to start. So he decided to taste life as a mercenary – it seemed like a great idea.

  He’d been a complete idiot.

  “I don’t want to die...”

  He’d followed the battle nailed to the tree by the horseman’s lance. He’d even had the satisfaction of watching the man shoot off his horse, and chuckled when its hooves had smashed his face in. In the end, Varno’s life had lasted longer than his executioner’s.

  He was about to die for nothing, he realised. It had been little more than a scuffle, an unimportant clash within the Empire’s far-reaching strategy. Yet that morning, as he advanced with the new merce
nary troops, he’d deluded himself that he was finally taking part in a ground-breaking event; a line on a resplendent page of history.

  Nothing more than a skirmish far from the front.

  ‘In Cambria, they’ll wipe the floor with a flag or two, they’ll correct a line of ink marking the front, then they’ll turn their attentions elsewhere... to a nice roast with a rich sauce probably,’ he mused, making an effort not to laugh. His shoulder hurt like torture. His right arm – the good one – hung weakly at his side. The armour was too heavy, and the mud beneath him had swallowed up his legs.

  They’d lost. His first battle, his first time outside that sodding village.

  He’d lost.

  “Oh, what shite...”

  The enemy horsemen were clearing the field of the few survivors. Just the slightly wounded – the moribund and the maimed were left there to die. Strange, thought Varno. Elder’s men were in a great hurry to leave.

  “Can you move?”

  Varno painfully turned his head and felt his heart leap for joy. Dear old Nedrio. That blessed barrel of lard had managed to get through it all. His forehead was thick with clotted blood, an ear had been shaved off, and even his hallmark belly didn’t seem in too good shape.

  But he was alive, and at his side.

  “I think... I can...”

  “Hold on!”

  Nedrio glanced at the nearest rider and waited for him to trot away. The field was teeming with casualties, and it would be some time before they, on the edge of the forest, were reached. The friend grabbed the spear with both hands at the right moment and tugged with all his might.

  And he had plenty of might. Before becoming a mercenary, he’d been a blacksmith. Nedrio was the only one in the village who’d left with him. Varno had never felt so much love for a man.

  The pain he experienced when the spear was pulled out was worse than countless deaths all together.

  “Come on, let’s make a getaway!” growled Nedrio as he tossed the lance aside, but Varno couldn’t stop screaming. He sounded like a pig being flayed alive. An enemy soldier turned towards them. The blacksmith’s hand was already on his sword, but was amazed to see the man turn his horse round and ride away.

  It was their golden opportunity.

  “Stop squealing and follow me!” bawled Nedrio, as he slapped him a couple of times. Stunned and delirious in pain, Varno clung onto him and together they went beyond the first rows of trees, soon disappearing into the dense darkness of the forest.

  The sun had set in a hurry. A few more moments and everything would be shrouded in obscurity.

  “Better... This way they won’t come after us...” muttered Nedrio as he wheezed in exertion. It was hard to move ahead through the intertwined branches and treacherous roots. Not a wisp of wind blew, nor could the slightest sound be heard.

  The forest was sleeping peacefully.

  “We’ve made it, my friend,” uttered Varno, coughing with rasping violence. There was blood in his breath. They’d been walking for longer than he could remember. He must have hit the ground when the horseman’s charge pinned him to the tree – he was a heap of bruised and broken bones.

  He was in a really bad way. Perhaps too bad.

  “You have to hold out until dawn, then we can head for the camp... It should be south of here. The important thing is to keep away from Cambrinn’s mountains...” Nedrio replied with a taut smile. “We’ll cross this valley and hide somewhere. I might still have a few slices of dried meat on me. Be careful of the ravine – it’s barely visible.”

  “Thanks... You saved my life...”

  “You can do the same for me next time, numbskull!” he answered.

  “Tha...”

  There was no time to finish his sentence.

  The feathers of an arrow suddenly appeared on Varno’s thigh. The bone had exploded into a thousand pieces. He hadn’t had time to hear the ping of the string nor the hiss of the shaft.

  Red feathers, like blood. And yellow, like molten gold.

  Varno glanced at Nedrio. He saw him clutch his stomach in silence, eyes bulging from their sockets. He’d been hit too. Varno looked up, at the treetops. He noticed nothing unusual at first. Just foliage fluttering in the breeze against a coal-black sky.

  And then, at last, he saw them. They sprang down from the branches, without a sound.

  He had no idea who, or what, they could be.

  ***

  “You didn’t kill him, Aris.”

  The hunter cursed between clenched teeth. His line of fire hadn’t been clear, and he’d been too eager. Not that Memion had done much better than him. An arrow in the gut hadn’t done the trick.

  “Let’s go down.”

  Aris jumped to the ground and brought out his sword. He hadn’t used it for ages. If he was honest, he wasn’t that unhappy about the unexpected inconvenience. Memion followed him in silence, and together they ran towards the two injured Khartiars. One of them, the fatter of the pair, had unsheathed a rusty blade and was yelling something in a coarse incomprehensible tongue. He’d never heard them speak.

  He’d always only ever heard them wail.

  “You see to yours and I’ll see to mine,” Memion ordered, slipping through the low tree branches. But when they reached the spot, the one he’d wounded was no longer there. The thinner Khartiar had literally disappeared.

  “Where’s that mutt gone?!”

  “Wherever he is... he won’t get far,” replied Aris.

  They both pounced on the remaining soldier, who was waiting for them, swinging his free sword. He was expecting death, which came instantly, with no struggle and no sound.

  Aris started seeking out his missing prey at once. Near the tree was a drop, probably a landslide caused by the recent relentless rains. If his Khartiar had tumbled down there, it wouldn’t be hard to find him. But just then, the two fellow defendants he’d sent towards the field returned with terrible news.

  “Many more are seeking shelter in the forest,” one informed him.

  “How many?”

  “Lots...”

  Aris stared at the ravine, and then at the horizon of trees marching to the battlefield. One, against many. Letting out an irritated hiss, he gave up on his tracking and gathered his men.

  “Come on... I’ll see to him later.”

  That Khartiar couldn’t go far, not in the state he was in.

  ***

  Varno opened his eyes and spat out a mouthful of acrid mud. He’d fallen after slipping on the edge of the drop, as his trembling hands grappled to free his sword from its sheath. He remembered hearing Nedrio shout something, a curse perhaps, then nothing more. He peered up but there was no trace of his friend. He touched his leg. He had to cover his mouth to quell the scream. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed the arrow shaft and bent it until it snapped in two. It hurt even more than the spear that had shattered his shoulder.

  For a foolish moment, Varno thought about climbing back up to see how Nedrio was. To help him, perhaps. Or to fight alongside him.

  But the mere idea of again coming up against those two beings erased any indecision. He just wanted to flee, as far away as possible, without looking back. He didn’t possess the strength to face those sinister men spawned of the nocturnal forest.

  “I’m sorry...”

  Varno tried standing up but his foot was useless. He began dragging himself through the mud, hobbling between the hard thorny bushes that studded the crest of the hill. Every thrust made his body shudder with stabbing pain. Only fear kept him alive. He didn’t want to die alone, in that accursed forest. And so he hauled himself. Thinking about nothing else but his own life.

  About that miserable existence he didn’t want to forsake.

  Varno couldn’t gauge what distance he’d covered, nor how long had passed since his terrible plunge into the night. The forest was swathed in silence and the stars stared down at him sternly, as they were swallowed up by heavy clouds laden with rain. He just wanted to go on, further an
d further on, until dawn. He wanted to see the sunlight, at all cost.

  But when he spotted the hut at the foot of a large tree, he didn’t think twice. The pain had become unbearable, and it would soon be impossible to move a single muscle. He feebly opened the door, pushing it with his one intact arm. He slipped inside, and crumpled to the floor, among the freshly chopped logs.

  When he realised he wasn’t alone, it was too late to attempt anything.

  “I don’t... want... to die...”

  ***

  It was nearly dawn when Aris could resume his search. Another eighty Khartiars had been slain, all cleanly and swiftly. Only that wretch he’d struck in the leg had managed to escape, but he wouldn’t get away with it for long. The blood trails were multiple and well-marked, and he managed to follow them to the hilltop, then northwards for a long stretch.

  ‘A stubborn one... It must have been pretty painful dragging himself with a wound like that,’ he thought in amusement.

  But all his bright spirits were dampened when it started to pour.

  Worried he’d lose the trail, Aris ran following his instincts and the last drops of blood, before they were all washed away by the water falling from the skies in bucketfuls. He came to a clearing, and recognised it at once. In the centre stood a huge oak, with a small house nestling among its roots. The door to the woodshed was open and flapped in the wind of the storm.

  “Eglade... If that Khartiar’s laid a finger on her...”

  The trail had entirely vanished. The ground was scattered all around with woodchips and pieces of bark. Aris raced to the tree and burst into the shack, sword in hand.

  He wouldn’t only kill him, he thought. He would literally shred him, that swine of a Khartiar, and strewed his guts all over the forest. That was the end he deserved.

  That was the end they all deserved.

  Yet he found only Eglade inside the shack, intent on stacking up damp wood along one wall. Trickles of rain flowed down her hair of molten copper. Such a beautiful woman, he mused. A pity she insisted on living far away from the village, alone.