“You deny the Gods your soul, so another must be given in your place.”

  “Who?”

  The bwgal shrugged. “Someone important to you. A lover, a child, a trusted retainer. The stronger the bond, the greater the power.”

  Cadoc shook his head. “I have none of those things, and I am no murderer.”

  The bwgal laughed. “No, I see that — warrior, a soldier of fortune, but no murderer.”

  Cadoc frowned, reading the contempt in her tone. “There’s honour in war, crone. I don't expect you to understand the difference.”

  “Very well,” she said, straightening her back, her chin lifting with a regal air. “Perhaps a contract can be made.”

  Cadoc’s confidence grew. “Name it.”

  The bwgal pursed her lips until they almost touched her nose. Several moments passed before she spoke, while Cadoc squirmed, his confidence faltering.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She blinked, the faintest of smiles curling her lips. It was the first time the gesture looked vaguely human. “One hundred men,” she began, lifting a long, slender finger to her lips. “Yes, one hundred men must fall to your sword before the rising of thirteen new moons.”

  Cadoc sat upright. “A hundred? So many.”

  The bwgal shrugged with casual indifference. “The Gods thirst.”

  Cadoc shuddered, his gaze dropping to his lap, and he clenched his fists together to stop his hands shaking. At length, he looked up and met the creature’s eyes.

  “And if I fail?”

  The bwgal shrugged. “Then you will grieve as a son grieves for his father's death.”

  Cadoc snorted, laughing. “My father's long dead, and I have no children to call my own.”

  The bwgal smiled and leaned forward. Cadoc held the creature’s gaze, unwilling to flinch or look away. The silent battle of wills lasted several moments until Cadoc could no longer bear the cold, alien eyes that seemed to reach in and squeeze his soul.

  He blinked.

  “There will be a price, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  “And I will pay it.”

  The bwgal shifted forward and leered, then she stood and motioned towards a simple wooden desk. Cadoc turned and saw only an ink pot and quill. “Then lay down your sword and be silent.”

  Cadoc unstrapped his sword and laid it before him. The bwgal leaned forward and partially unsheathed the blade. Then she unfurled her legs and rose to her feet, her long robe clinging to a thin, shapeless frame.

  “Now stand.”

  Cadoc obeyed. The bwgal drifted lightly towards him. He resisted the urge to back away. His nose twitched as she neared for she smelt nothing like a woman.

  “Now, bare your forearm, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc offered his arm, pulling back the layers of cloak and tunic until the skin of his arm, grimy with dirt and sweat, gleamed into the dull red light of the orb. The strange light made the veins in his arm stand out. The bwgal stretched out her long fingers, each one adorned with a long-pointed fingernail. Before he could react, she moved with impossible speed. He flinched, as her nails drew two crimson lines across his wrist.

  “Stay your hand,” she warned.

  Cadoc clenched his fist, the muscles of his upper arm and shoulder bulging until the stinging sensation faded to a dull throb. Blood welled from the twin cuts and dripped down on the partially naked blade of his sword.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  There was a ringing quality to the sound as his blood spattered on the steel. He found himself taken by the rhythmic sound when it was joined by the bwgal’s low chanting.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  His gaze was drawn to the table. A piece of parchment now lay upon it. The quill sat unmoved in the inkwell but with every drop of blood he yielded, a letter formed on the page.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  He lost count of the drips as its pace quickened. His heart beat faster, the bwgal’s chanting matching its tempo. It was like trying to count raindrops before a torrent arrived with the sudden, unceasing violence of a storm. There was no pain, but something pulled at him, dragging him towards the precipice of unconsciousness. His head swam. He was so close to falling…

  The bwgal ceased her chanting, and Cadoc gasped in the warm air. He swallowed, almost gagging, as he tasted his own blood dripping down his throat.

  “One hundred drops of your blood, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  He opened his eyes, his vision swimming, and his weight swaying from one foot to the other. The bwgal’s piercing lavender eyes regarded him evenly.

  “The gods have granted you strength and ferocity, beyond that of any mortal man. You must repay them with one hundred souls before the rising of thirteen new moons.”

  Cadoc swallowed again, grimacing as he looked down at the blood flowing from his open veins. He felt weak and tired, wanted to collapse, but something held him upright. He glanced down at the sword by his feet, expecting to see the blade mired in congealed blood, yet it shone unblemished and unsullied in the light.

  “You understand this price, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line?”

  Cadoc nodded. “Thirteen new moons. I understand.”

  The bwgal flashed her teeth and slumped heavily down, assuming the meditative, cross-legged pose. She held out her hand, pointing at the sword at Cadoc's feet. “Then take up your sword and fulfil your debts, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc stared dumbly at his bleeding hand. Dimly, he sensed he had lost a lot of blood, and he suspected he’d never survive the journey down from the mountain. He bent to pick up the sword, swooned and fell to his knees. He raised his head. “I…I cannot go back.”

  The bwgal grimaced. “That will not do, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc grasped his sword, but he was too weak to lift it. “Will the gods help me?”

  The bwgal shook her head. “Not until the rising of the next new moon, and no help beyond the gift of violence they have bestowed upon you. This is your debt to pay.”

  Cadoc bared his teeth. “Then what of you?”

  The bwgal looked taken aback. “What of me?”

  “Would you lend me your help?” Cadoc hissed. "I cannot return to my camp; the mountain will kill me."

  The bwgal inclined her head and stared at him for several moments. “Yes, I will help you — for a price.”

  Cadoc snorted. “Take more blood, crone, and I won’t be around to pay it.”

  The bwgal smiled, spread her palms, and then she brought her hands together in an inverted steeple. “Then in return for your life, I would ask a boon.”

  Cadoc frowned, not sure if he heard her right. “A boon? You would ask a favour of me? What is it?”

  The smile faded, and she shrugged. “Let us see you return first. I will ask when my need is great, and you have the power to grant my wish. Do you agree?”

  Cadoc shivered, his vision swimming towards the blackness at the corner of his eyes. He gritted his teeth and growled, “I don’t have a bloody choice, do I?”

  The bwgal shrugged. “There’s always death. Should you venture outside alone, you will find yours, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  “And my debt to the gods should I die?”

  “They will take payment.”

  Cadoc shuddered as he contemplated his fate in the afterlife should he owe a blood debt to the gods. He sighed. “Very well. I accept.”

  The bwgal’s toothy smile returned. She held up her hand, her palm facing Cadoc. The light of the red orb winked out, and Cadoc fell into darkness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tally

  “SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!” Cadoc snapped.

  The storm had passed, and the wind died down to a stiff breeze. Cadoc’s gruff voice carried over the sounds of the ship, eliciting attention from several sailors righting the minimal damage caused by the wind and rain.

  Chatter died to low grumblings and then silence as Cadoc waved the procession towards the ship’s railing. Cadoc pointed at the gangplank, lashed down below the gangway. “Run it out then set him down.”

  They lay Rhisiart’s body on the gangplank. He was crudely wrapped in the same Oskan blanket Cadoc had seen below. It looked dull under the moonless light. The four men who carried him up from the hold gathered round as Cadoc cleared his throat and began mouthing the last rites with as much feeling as he could muster — which wasn’t much despite having liked the man in life. At their conclusion, he nodded once to Fersin, who stood a few steps to his right. With the help of another, the two men lifted one end of the gangplank on which Rhisiart lay, committing his body to the deep. If there was a splash, no-one heard it over the gusting wind or the creaking timbers of the ship — Rhisiart’s disappearance below the black water as quiet and unremarkable as his death.

  The few men who attended the impromptu funeral began to drift away, heading below deck. Their mood was sombre, and yet Cadoc sensed their fears abating, replaced by the wearied fatigue of men grown too accustomed to burying brothers-at-arms. In truth he was relieved; his eulogy had been brief and lacked both passion and piety, but the words had done what was needed. How it placated his men, he’d never know. Yet, they trusted him and trusted his words. He had long since mastered the knack for saying what needed to be said. And, if it helped a dead man find his way to peace, all the better. Would that his own fears could be so easily quelled.

  Superstitious bastards.

  Cadoc gripped the railing and inhaled the cold sea air. He stared at the black water and allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. The burden of command weighed heavier on him now than it ever had. More than a hundred men had marched south with him to Kas Mendoc, and one-by-one they had met their end. He understood now why the burden was so great, for with home in sight he would have to account for those men with the loved ones they had left behind. And then there was his own debt to pay.

  One hundred souls.

  Cadoc’s skin crawled. How had he lost count of the days? He knew the answer, even if he was ashamed to admit it. On campaign, the months came and went. The seasons further south were warm, and winter was short and mild while the summer seemed to stretch for an eternity. The change disrupted his natural sense of the year’s passage. Then he’d been preoccupied with the war, keeping his head firmly on his shoulders. Yes, he could almost convince himself he’d been distracted — almost.

  No, I wanted to forget, he thought.

  Cadoc looked up into the night sky. A dusting of stars winked through the thinning cloud. It was a new moon, and Cadoc knew his time was up. Thirteen moons had come and gone. His account was past due.

  He turned his back on the sea, pausing as his eyes met those of the helmsman as the man slouched wearily at the tiller. For a moment he thought the man’s eyes flashed violet and the hairs on his neck stood. He swallowed, cursing himself for seeing ghosts and laughed aloud against his own fear.

  “You a’ right there, man?” the helmsman called.

  “Aye,” Cadoc replied. “Just tired.”

  The man nodded in sympathy. “Long night,” he said. “Get yourself some rest. God willing we’ll sight Skelgard at dawn.”

  Cadoc touched his forehead in a brief gesture of thanks and said no more.

  He hurried below, relieved to be out of the cold. In the dark confines of the hold, men snored softly, settled at last in the calm aftermath of the storm. A few turned their heads to watch as he trod through the mass of bodies. He ignored them, making his way to the front of the ship, where he had taken his quarters with the ship’s captain.

  The cabin was separated by nothing more than a heavy curtain. Cadoc yanked it aside and stepped through, grimacing at the smell of cheap wine. It was quiet within and even darker than the main hold with only a single lantern for light. The captain slept in a hammock, breathing heavily, the occasional snore his only sound. The bottle tucked lovingly under his left arm suggesting he’d drunk himself into a stupor. It wasn’t the first time, and that suited Cadoc’s desire for privacy well.

  Cadoc found his blankets against the bulkhead where he had left them. They were bundled on top of the few possessions he’d managed to salvage from the fall of Antios. He sat down on his blankets, grunting as he pulled himself in a cross-legged position. His back cracked, and he winced as he felt the bones of his spine shifting against each other. Too old, he thought. A man of forty-one summers should spend his nights in a soft bed, warmed by a good woman.

  He pulled up the edge of his makeshift bed, lifting the blankets closest to the bulkhead, and found his sword. His fingers tingled as they gripped the hilt. Even through the layers of cloth, he could feel the bwgal’s power and the gnawing hunger to shed blood imbued within the steel.

  Cadoc swallowed and closed his eyes. Memories returned like the sudden violence of a deluge. Faces of those he’d killed. The stink of their blood and entrails, screams of pain and cries for mercy as he hacked them apart as the bloodlust took hold.

  Svarzo.

  That’s what the Oskoi called him — according to Rhisiart, who’d served as his translator whenever they’d captured prisoners. Butcher. Nothing noble about it, he mused. His men had been kinder, naming him the Hand of the Rhyfal, the war god of his ancestors. The Venyk hadn’t liked that much, but as long as he kept the enemy shitting their pants, they kept their protests quiet.

  Cadoc’s eyes blinked open, and he stared at the sword lying across his lap. It was time to hang it over a mantle. An artefact for bards to praise and boys to dream of wielding. But first, he had an account to settle.

  Cadoc lifted the sword and began to unravel the layers of cloth, revealing first the hilt and then the scabbard. Its magic — or its curse — sang to him, and he had to force down the bloodlust like bile in his throat. Why did it hunger, still? Surely after thirteen months, the magic was spent.

  He ran his fingers across the worn leather scabbard until he felt the nick he’d carved to mark his first kill since signing the bwgal’s contract.

  One…two…three.

  An ambush on the march to Antios. He’d killed three that night and saved his company from a rout. It was the first time the bloodlust took him. His fingers traced along the leather and he went on counting.

  Five…ten…twenty.

  Faces haunted his mind’s eye as he remembered the details, more vividly now than he had in the heat of battle. It was unsettling, seeing them again. He began wondering who they were. Fathers? Brothers? Sons? Ordinary men defending their homes against invaders driven by ideology and plunder.

  Forty-five…fifty…fifty-nine.

  Sixty…a hard fight and a brute of a man, almost seven feet tall and twice Cadoc’s weight. He’d been something of a local legend — the son of a God, they said — his weapon of choice, a boar spear that could have felled a war elephant. Could he count this towards his debt? He’d won through treachery, throwing sand in the man’s eyes then lopping off a leg. His lips curled in a smirk; the bwgal hadn’t stipulated fair combat.

  Sixty-five…seventy.

  Seventy-three…his most troubling kill. A boy no more than sixteen, left by his companions to defend a few horses. Cadoc and his men killed them and discovered the boy when they returned to loot the camp. He’d been a fair youth, with a strong chin, long dark hair and a lean, muscular frame. Filled with pride and defiance, he challenged Cadoc to single combat and lost his head to Cadoc’s first counterattack. At least it was quick.

  Seventy-five…

  The Oskoi counteroffensive took them all by surprise, breaking their lines and forcing the invading crusaders back behind the walls of Antios. How many thousands had died in the rout? Cadoc wasn’t sure if his own tally in the heat of battle had been right. He couldn't inscribe his macabre ledger until they reached the city for it had been a running fight over three brutal days and nights.

  Eighty…eight-five.

  How many more succumbed to the disease and starvation in the months that followed? Had it not been for Artur Kasparu’s brilliance and bravery, he knew he too would have died behind those walls. The Venyk duke had somehow found a means to escape through the chaos of the city’s docks, even as the Oskoi breached the walls.

  More had fallen to Cadoc’s blade in the fray as Cadoc and his last remaining men fought their way onboard an Oskoi ship and slaughtered the crew.

  Ninety…ninety-two…ninety-four.

  His hands approach the end of the scabbard. A journey chronicled in blood. Who was left? A few soldiers on the Antios mainland. He’d killed them to steal a couple of wagons so they could cross the Isthmus of Hieraklia with their wounded.

  Ninety-five…ninety-six…ninety-seven.

  Cadoc’s hands began trembling as he felt his way down, squinting to see against the cabin's gloom.

  Ninety-eight…ninety-nine…

  He pressed his fingers into the leather, frantically seeking out the last nick — the hundredth mark that would absolve his debt. He reached the bottom of the scabbard, the leather smooth and unmarked. Desperate now, he turned the sword over in his hands, searching in vain for a mark he knew he never carved. The leather was worn, stained with oil and blood, but otherwise unmarked. It taunted him.

  Ninety-nine souls…one man short.

  Cadoc closed his eyes and brooded on his failing. Had it been for nothing after all? He had nothing to show but a fistful of baubles and the clothes on his back. Most of his men were dead. Let the gods take his soul for all that it was worth. He laughed in defiance, stopping as he heard the captain give a loud snore.

  …you will grieve as a son grieves for his father's death.

  The bwgal’s voice rasped in his mind, almost as though the creature was standing behind him. Perhaps the price was not so simple. The bwgal had been cryptic. What did it even mean? His father was already dead, and Cadoc had no children. What was left for the gods to take when he had nothing of worth? His life? They could have it, for all he cared.

  A loud snort made Cadoc look up for a second time. The captain's dark, corpulent shape twisted in his hammock. He broke wind and settled back to sleep, snoring.

 

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