The chronicles of breed.., p.37
The Chronicles of Breed Box Set, page 37
part #1 of The Chronicles of Breed Series
It was not to be.
The wings burned up as beautifully as a dying sunset and blanketed the battlefield in a sheet of flame. I crashed onto the glassed ground and breathed this body’s final, fiery breath.
“We shall remember this day.” The youthful voice roused me from death. I opened an eye to find that I was lying face down on the back of an enormous, covered wagon, on a pile of ash and blackened bone shards— all that was left of my previous incarnation. My chest felt heavy as though a weight lay upon it. I took this feeling to be sadness at the passing of my elemental self but was more likely heartburn from breathing in my ashes.
I sat up. I looked mostly human, although I could see the faint impression of scales around my claw-toed feet and hands. A dismantled trebuchet had been shoved into the corner, no doubt to make space for my dragonish bones which would have made a magnificent trophy worthy of display in some princelings keep, just like the one hanging in the Annurashis’ hall. Or perhaps they were more fiscally minded and intended to grind them to ash and sell them by the bag. Dragon bone was a popular, but expensive aphrodisiac back in Valen. Alas, neither would come to pass. The elemental’s bones were as subject to the ravages of the air as its flesh had been, only the decay was slower. There wouldn’t be any bragging rights or cock medicine.
“We shall never forget.” the youth’s voice broke as he fought to be heard over the cheering crowd. “We shall never forget that this was the day that our prayers were answered, that a savior came, and the evil tide was turned.” Wild cheering rent the air. “We must not forget that we do this because we must, not because we choose to. Many of those we have destroyed were our friends, our comrades, our kin. We fought to bring peace, to them and to this land. With heart, faith, and courage we carried the day. Remember that you were here, remember that you few stood against many, and carry that memory forever in your heart.”
I stood up and the world tilted on its axis. I steadied myself against the side of the wagon and fought to see through a tangle of red hair that fell past my waist. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the flesh of my shoulders was mottled orange and covered in a light sprinkling of scales. It was as though the essence of my old form was fighting to return, to push through the physical constraints of whatever I’d become this time.
I wasn’t pleased that I’d died again or that I’d lost the magnificent, elemental body, but this was reasonable compensation. My senses were as bad, I imagined, as those of any human, but it was better than being a fish person. As I admired my new form the canvass cover on the wagon was thrown back and a turnip-pated fellow peered in.
“Demon!” he shouted.
Terrified, I spun on my heel half expecting to see Shallunsard grinning at me from the shadows, then I realized that he meant me. I raised my hands. “No, wait. I’m not a demon.” I might as well have declared myself ruler of the heavens for all that he was prepared to listen to a word I said. He yelled in a panic and leaped from the wagon. There followed more shouting and minutes later, a half-dozen overcautious warriors dragged me unresisting into the daylight. Chaos erupted. I was bound, casually beaten, and thrown to the ground. A crowd gathered and there followed an argument between various, bellicose factions all bent on claiming the honor of slaying the demon they had found in their midst. Not one paused to ask how I came to be there or why I wasn’t trying to attack them, but that’s clanks for you.
While this was going on, I was kept busy dodging feet and the stamping hooves of disgruntled warhorses. The debate raged over which of them should slay me and precisely how the deed should be done. I didn’t feel in immediate danger and took the opportunity to get the measure of these culls, see if I could work out what all the undead army business was about. Confident of my ability to free myself when I so chose, I listened intently and with no small measure of amusement to the bloody merits of dismemberment by wild horses, as opposed to the tried and tested method of burning when it came to the disposal of demons. Some few held out for beheading while a shifty-eyed fellow claimed that drowning me in a barrel of pickling vinegar was the only true way to slay a hell-bound fiend and as luck would have it, he knew where he could get such a thing, for a very reasonable price.
“My friends, we shouldn’t argue amongst ourselves.” A sweet-voiced cull stepped forward, separated herself from the tussling mass with the sureness of one used to command, of giving rather than taking orders. “Not after what we’ve been through together, eh?” She indicated me with a flick of a glove that she slapped into her palm. The crowd quieted. Like all the rest, she looked like she’d just fought a battle. Her armor was bloodied, her gambeson rent, and her steel wrapped legs were dyed with mud and filth up to her thighs. Despite the battle-worn gear her gambeson was trimmed with gold braid, the steel on her hip had a jewel and gold inlaid hilt, and the mud-caked boots were made of soft, tooled leather. As a testament to her trade, she carried scars. One ran across her cheek, a pale scratch in her dark skin that enhanced rather than diminished her confident swagger. Here was a leader and a fighter, and without doubt one to watch.
Another noteworthy fellow shoved his way through the crowd not long after. In contrast to the woman, he was neither elegant nor handsome, but he was hard to ignore. He was barrel-chested, stubby armed and thick-legged. His black beard had been tarred into spikes and banded with copper rings. His piggish eyes were quick and fixed in a face that was wider at the bottom than it was at the sparsely thatched top. He’d also recently pissed himself by the look of things and not for the first time, going by the smell. Ill-favored and ill-mannered though he was, he had a dozen equally handsome coves at his back and a double-headed ax slung over his urux-broad shoulder, obviating the need for either manners or good looks.
“Fuck off, Delgaro, you poncey cunt,” he growled, confirming my estimation. “I say we get some horses and tear this fucker apart, ’afore it can make any mischief.”
I was still more amused than affronted, but I couldn’t let that pass without comment. “Mischief? You’re in error, my good man. ’Twas I who saved you.” My words were met with wall-faced incredulity, as though a rock had just opined on the price of fish. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” Those coves closest to me, casually edged back, leaving Pig-Eyes and Delgaro, who both looked surprised, but also intrigued by my interjection.
Pig-Eyes kicked me. “Shut up, you fucking monster,” he said with a level of vehemence that was mostly composed of fear.
“Now, now, Bolin. There’s no need for violence, yet. Come, have a drink with me.” Delgaro held out her hand, and one of the soldiers passed her a bottle of something that smelled like brandy. She took a quick nip before offering it to the surly cull.
Taking advantage of the moment’s peace, a thin-lipped, wart-nosed fellow slipped through the crowd and placed himself center stage. “Beware, brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice aquiver with righteousness. He was clutching a twigish, tin stamped symbol that was pinned to his jerkin. “Look not into the demon’s sulfurous eyes, do not listen to its honeyed words. Cleave to the Holy Briar and burn this fiend.”
Bolin took a swig of the brandy and pointed a stubby, hammer thick finger at the cove without even bothering to look at him. “And you can fuck right off with that briar bollocks.” The skinny cull curled his lip and slunk back into the crowd, but not before one last entreaty. “Do not heed the words of demons, Cleave to the Briar, brothers and—”
“Kiss my arse?” My interjection earned another kick from Bolin, but some of those within earshot laughed, easing the tension a notch. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of the charnel house drifting from the burning field. Fatigue settled on the warriors as the heat of battle began to dissipate. I’d seen enough clanks to know that next would come gratitude for being alive closely followed by grief for those who were not. In a couple of days, when the hangovers wore off, bone weariness would take over after which would come reflection and for some, regret.
I’d have to keep a wary eye out for any sudden shift in the mood of the crowd. Humans prided themselves on their individuality, but they were just like any other pack animal when it came down to it. If one jumped and decided to light a bonfire in my honor, they probably all would, and then I’d have to kill them which would be a pity after saving them. I decided to hold my water and wait and see how negotiations went between the two main players before I attempted to extricate myself.
While I contemplated my fate and the poor wager I was most likely making, my gaze wandered across the haggard faces peering down at me. Amongst their number I spotted a cull who was the spit double of Tobias, right down to the homespun robe. Our eyes met, and he tipped me the nod before disappearing into the throng. I made to stand, to get a better look at the uncanny twin of my dead friend but was warned off moving by the tip of a blade. That I could kill the whole fucking lot of them without raising a sweat made me laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Delgaro asked.
“It’s just that, I saved you and now you’re debating how you’re going to kill me. It’s funny.”
She bristled. “I wasn’t debating how to kill you. I’m suggesting that my company and I should take you to the king so that he can decide how to kill you.”
“Aye and snag a bag of coin for your trouble. I know you Delgaro, you mangy cuntbox,” Bolin added with a suggestive sneer.
“There is nothing mangy about my cuntbox, cockshort,” she fired back. “And I’m more than willing to give you your share of any reward the king might offer, given that your share would be exactly fuck all, as you’ve done nothing to secure this creature.”
“None of you have done anything to secure me, but you carry on. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” Which was true.
Delgaro frowned. “Kick it again, would you, Bolin?”
Bolin stabbed the air with a fat finger. “Don’t tell me what to do, wench.”
“Well said, that man. You tell her,” I added.
The captain swept her scabbarded blade behind her and leaned in close to me. There was stiffness in her movement as though a wound pained her. “What the fuck kind of fool provokes those who hold their life in their hands?”
“I would say either a thoughtless fool, or a fool who has tired of life, or perhaps someone who’s confident of their abilities.”
“The fool might save themselves a lot of unnecessary pain if they explained themselves.” She let her gaze drift to the crowd.
“They might, but where would be the fun in that?”
She stood up, thought a while, and then snorted before turning to the crowd. “It’s decided then. Bolin and I will take this foul sprite to the king.” She drew her sword, raised it in salute. “For the honor of the King!” Everyone cheered, except Bolin, who looked like he was having trouble keeping up.
He tapped Delgaro on the shoulder. “I didn’t agree to that.”
“And to Bolin the Boar!” Again, the crowd cheered with enthusiasm, drowning out any further objections. Delgaro winked at Bolin.
He threw his hands in the air. “Fuck it, why not?”
“That was nicely done,” I said, but nobody was listening to me.
13
I’d never been impressed by clanks, so-called knights done up like tins of salt beef, swearing this or that oath, affecting high moral values just as long as it suited them to do so. From what I’d seen, these oath-bound coves were paragons of virtue right up to the point they wanted to rob or fuck someone, or their arses were on the line.
Although they were cut from a similar cloth to oath-sworn warriors, mercenaries were patterned after another, less hypocritical fashion. Differences in character aside, they were on the whole more pragmatic than noble, bound by the clauses of a contract, not hollow vows. As a Guild Blade, I was more than handy with the cutlery, but I wasn’t the kind of cove who marched in formation or fought in the open. Having said that, I understood what motivated mercenaries. Bolin and Delgaro were of that ilk, working for the coin of King Whatever-He-Was-Called, who was fighting an evil necromancer and his bigger, more resilient army. Such I gathered as we rode along.
I say rode. They rode, I was invited to ride in a warded iron cage that was strapped on a wagon. It had apparently belonged to the necromancer’s army and judging by the claw and fang marks on the bars; it had been built to contain some nightmarish, undead beast.
The sensible thing to do would have been apport out of there, find the gate, and try to return to my world, but then…
I’d seen Tobias, and not just some cove who looked like him, it was him. He wanted me to be here and I wanted to know why that was.
“Are you deaf or something? I said, get in the fucking cage.” One of the mercenaries had said, as he shoved me towards the cage.
I put my hand out to stop myself falling and saw the ward rune carved into the lock and felt the spiky tingle of magic. If I get in this, I might not get out. So? I’ll die again, so what? I’d got away from Shallunsard and the meddlesome Annurashi and I was safe here in another world. So why not stick around and have a bit of fun while I waited for Tobias to show his face again? I turned to the bemused mercenary who was winding up to kick me. “No need for violence, my good man,” I said as I climbed into the cage. “I want you to know that I’m doing this purely as a demonstration of trust. I’m allowing myself to be caged like an animal to prove that I’m not a demon.”
The mercenary frowned as he thought about it. “You’re being caged because you are a demon and there are a thousand warriors in this camp, so you daren’t do otherwise.” He folded his arms and smiled, satisfied that he’d won the point.
“Have you ever met a demon that didn’t try to rip your face off?” I countered.
His frown returned.
“It has a point, Kinsi,” someone added.
Kinsi turned on his comrade. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well don’t.” He snapped the lock in place. “And you can stop fucking grinning. You’re going to burn.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“You know if you got a move on you’d catch your king on the road and save us all a journey,” I shouted to the mercenary leaders, but neither deigned to answer. The cage was made for undead beasts not living coves, but it was a better way to travel than walking or riding one of the horses. I took the opportunity to get the measure of my traveling companions and earwig on their conversation and try to find out what was going on here.
After a couple of hours spent not learning much, I decided a more direct approach was required. “So, what’s your king called?” I asked one of the mercenaries riding beside the wagon. He was a snot-nosed youth with freckles and the lightest dusting of hair on his spotty chin. He scowled at me.
“What’s with the face? I didn’t ask if your father sucked dog cock, I asked what your king was called.”
“Why, you.” He half drew his sword.
“Oi, fuck knuckle.” One of Bolin’s crew shouted at the youth. “Draw that blade and I’ll shove it up your arse— sideways.”
“This, thing just insulted my dad,” the warrior protested. “Nobody insults my dad.”
Delgaro was riding ahead with Bolin and cast a glance over her shoulder when she heard the raised voices. “You don’t have a dad, Piet. Stop pretending and don’t damage the merchandise.”
Piet glared at me, while those around him laughed at his expense. He sheathed his blade.
“So, what’s your fucking king called?” I pressed. “Come on, Piet, I’m not going to stop asking until you tell me.”
“Malin. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
“That didn’t hurt did it?” I smiled, showing a hint of fang. That the cage had been warded was a minor annoyance, but I was sure if I tried I could overcome whatever petty magic had been used to fashion them. Until then I would rely on the dark art of relentless badgering to squeeze information out of my new friend Piet.
It took a few hours of whining and wheedling, threatening, flattering, and cajoling but he eventually broke and told me we were headed to the city of Galewyn, the capital of the fair land of Arduin. At least, it had been fair until a great evil had almost destroyed it.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t draw him on the exact nature of this ‘great evil.' I knew it was a necromancer of some kind, but the very mention of the word drew stiff rebukes and threats of violence from those within earshot. I let it drop and listened instead to the general flow of their comradely banter. Out of their various discussions I learned who had slotted the most restless dead, who’d had the closest escape, which one of them had the biggest cock, and which one had the smallest tits, the usual salty warrior raillery.
Their idle chatter didn’t include anything useful, like their captain’s plans for me, but I did learn what was the most efficacious treatment for foot fungus and the best way to eat fermented pigs’ trotters.
I also discovered that the battle I’d interrupted had happened two days ago. Which meant that, thus far this had been the longest it had taken me to reincarnate. I wondered if it took longer to come back the more often I died, if I was using up the magic with every death. Alas, my knowledge of the metaphysics that governed my gift and my curse was limited to guesswork.
“What’s that, then?” Piet pointed at my hand which I’d been absentmindedly scratching while mulling over my situation. It was too late to hide the mark in my palm, not that he would recognize either Shallunsard or Rowan’s sigil for what they were. What I hadn’t expected was that I wouldn’t recognize the marks either. “The fucking star steel.”
