Master of furies, p.7
Master of Furies, page 7
‘Forward!’ commanded Bogartis, and before Declan could react, the old captain was a stride ahead of him, moving to engage the nearest horsemen.
Declan tried to turn and move forward and instantly fell, barely hanging on to his sword as he crashed into the sand, knees and hands keeping him from landing face-first. He scrambled to his feet just as a rider came close enough to swing at him. Declan realized this was a very young warrior, perhaps on his first raid, because he misjudged the distance between them, and the sword blow missed by more than a foot.
Declan jumped to the right, putting himself on the warrior’s left, meaning he’d have to strike across the horse’s neck. Declan saw the horse’s head moving slightly towards him and reached up and grabbed the bridle. It was a dangerous move that could break fingers or dislocate Declan’s arm if it went wrong, but the horse was already off-centre and with a strong downward pull, the former smith caused the gelding to overbalance, and the rider found himself falling to Declan’s feet. A swift strike and the young warrior stared at the sky with vacant eyes as blood fountained from his throat.
Declan held tight to the mount’s reins, as the horse tried to right itself and pull away, but a quick yank on the animal’s bridle, then a release, communicated that Declan was in control. As the fighting raged around him, Declan was in the saddle in a few seconds.
He barely saw the next attack, as a rider following the youngster Declan had killed came at him. Declan ducked over the horse’s neck as the raider attempted a backhand strike. Declan leaned forward to the point of almost falling off the horse, and jabbed with his own blade, slicing the warrior’s arm, causing him to lose his sword.
Without a weapon and injured, that rider attempted to turn to flee, but before he was able, Declan struck him across the back of his neck, dropping him from the saddle, dead before he struck the ground.
Declan wheeled his horse, which pulled at the reins and shook its head to express its distress. Just his luck, thought Declan, an untested warrior on the back of an untested horse. He dug his heels into the horse’s flank, shoving his weight slightly forward, and the horse leapt ahead.
As the horse moved forward and another rider turned to engage him, Declan felt everything around him begin to slow, and the familiar cold calm washed up from within him. He welcomed the feeling for he knew he was now a finely tuned weapon, existing only in the moment, able to anticipate his enemy’s moves.
The rider who had turned to meet him was to Declan’s view slowly bringing back his arm to slash down, so Declan kicked his horse’s left side, driving the animal slightly to his right, and he ducked over the neck, thrusting his sword at the man’s exposed armpit, letting the horse’s momentum drive the point home.
To Declan it was oddly comical seeing the man’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth begin to open to scream, as Declan’s sword nearly tore his opponent’s arm completely off. He turned away.
Before that rider was out of his saddle, Declan felt his own mount stumble and start to fall. Kicking loose his stirrups, he jumped from the horse’s back, landing in a tuck, rolling and coming to his feet as the horse struck the sand. The impact with the sand was distant, and he suffered no injury.
He turned in a full circle, and for a moment was in a place of calm at the heart of the fighting. He saw no nearby mount but spied a sword in the sand and picked it up. He hefted it and instantly knew it was an inferior weapon, mediocre beside his own blade forged with rare sands. He kept the found blade in his left hand.
With a weapon in each hand, he ran forward and in three strides slashed the leg of a horseman who was about to get the better of one of Benruf’s men. The sudden attack from behind gave Benruf’s warrior an opening and he killed the man.
Declan spotted an opportunity to remount. Moving quickly, he stashed the plundered sword under his arm and kept it pinned to his side before he sprang. Fingers twisting within the horse’s mane, Declan swung his leg over the mount’s back and found himself new purchase.
This mount was better trained than the previous and accepted the change of riders without trying to run or buck. Declan grabbed the loose reins, gathering them up and putting them in his mouth, freeing his left hand to hold a sword.
He steered the horse with his legs, with an ease that he now took for granted, and entered the fray again, killing the next man in moments.
As that man’s horse darted away, Declan could see Bogartis confronting the enemy’s chieftain, the one with the shiny black boots. One glance made it clear Bogartis was outmatched, and only his years of experience held off the furious attack by the younger and stronger man.
Declan kicked his horse’s flanks, but before he could reach his captain, another raider came at him from the left. Without thinking, Declan moved his horse with his legs, and raised his left sword to take a descending sword strike, while half-throwing himself at the man, jabbing with the point of his right sword.
He took the blow to his blade with his left sword and took the man full in the stomach with his right. The other man fell across the neck of his horse, who bucked and kicked. Declan’s mount shied from the kick, causing Declan to overbalance and fall. Both horses ran, leaving Declan face-down on the sand. He rolled away from harm and gained his feet. Declan turned and saw the raider’s leader swinging down at Bogartis, who stood with sword upraised, and Declan noticed blood on his captain’s face.
He moved as quickly as the sand allowed, and suddenly the battle seemed to speed up as his calm focus slipped away. Instantly the brighter sun, louder noise, and the stench of blood, shit, and piss assaulted his senses. Declan hesitated as if suffering a blow to his stomach.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to move towards Bogartis, who in desperation was attempting to back away from the leader of the raiders. Shouting taunts at Bogartis, only the deep sand prevented him from riding down the old captain.
Rather than the calm, clear slowing he usually knew, Declan was visited by a rising sense of rage and near-panic at his inability to move quickly through the sand. It took only a few extra moments, but it felt as if every passing second was ten, and every yard of distance was double.
He saw Bogartis fall backwards as the chief raider swept down with his blade, missing his target’s head by scant inches. Declan drew back his right hand and threw his sword like a dagger. It tumbled over and over then struck the chieftain across the back, bouncing off but leaving a deep gash in his waistcoat, from which blood began to seep. His blow ended as he arched backwards and cried out in pain, and his horse moved to the side, missing Bogartis by a few feet.
The sideways movement of his horse caused the chieftain to lose his balance, and he fell off backwards, landing in the sand with an audible thud. Declan launched himself at the chieftain as Bogartis lay still for a moment, then started to move away on his back using his elbows.
The leader of the raiders rolled away from his mount, turned and rose to his feet ready for Declan’s attack, his face contorted into a snarling mask of pain and rage.
Declan felt a surge of emotion; anger, hatred, fear, and loss rushed through him. Seeing Bogartis on the ground, scrambling as best he could to get away, Declan knew he needed the clarity he had known in battle. Taking a precious moment to focus, he forced the calm to return. Instantly, the battle slowed, noise faded, and his vision became like that of a hawk, clear and focused.
The chieftain of the raiders moved towards him, and his posture and movement told Declan exactly where his attack was centred. Declan knew how this would end, and he felt more calmness than ever before, with everything around him getting slower and easier to anticipate.
The raider’s leader neared and even while he anticipated the attack, Declan could see more detail than ever before. The chieftain was a man of early middle years, in his late thirties, perhaps a bit more, but by the evidence of a number of obvious scars, he was a veteran of many fights. He had a slightly crooked nose from a badly healed break, and his jaw protruded slightly as he attacked, his eyes wide enough to show the whites surrounding dark brown irises.
A part of Declan’s mind was surprised by his ability to see in such detail, but he set aside this fascination to gauge every possible outcome of this attack. Without realizing he had come to any decision, Declan felt his body moving without conscious thought, as if some higher mind had seized control and he was but an observer.
He took a single step towards the leader, then stopped abruptly, as the chieftain swung hard at the space Declan would have occupied in another step. Finding only empty air, the blade continued past Declan, who then stepped forward.
As he had anticipated, a lethal backhand swing came a moment later, but Declan took that blow on his own blade. As the raider recoiled and pulled back for another strike, Declan let the glancing parry propel him in a circular motion. He spun around completely, coming back with his sword fully extended as the raider chieftain began his next strike.
Declan had expected the man to be open for a brief instant, but what he hadn’t expected was that his own blow would miss the warrior’s arm and shoulder by a scant inch and instead strike him in the side of the neck, cutting straight through, easily severing muscle and bone, and beheading him.
Blood fountained out of the neck stump as the chieftain’s body seemed to continue the strike as it collapsed to the sand, the head landing at Declan’s feet. He had an odd mixture of feelings. The unexpected hot rage was somehow contained within that slow, cold awareness he’d known previously when fighting. He’d gained a new focus.
He bellowed his victory, and grabbed the head of his enemy, lifting it high as his battle shout echoed.
Like a ripple spreading in a pond from a tossed stone, an awareness of this triumph spread through the battle and the raiders began to move away, giving ground as they saw their leader’s head held high like a trophy, as Benruf had predicted.
‘Let them go!’ Declan shouted. His fighters paused and as distance grew between the two sides, the raiders who could turned and fled back towards the city gate. ‘Get the horses!’
Some of the men simply fell back, exhausted and needing to rest, but others heeded Declan’s command and set out to recover whatever mounts had not run too far.
Declan quickly surveyed the scene and realized that half his company was dead or gravely wounded. Fewer than twenty men stood able to fight. He glanced to where Bogartis had fallen and hurried over to kneel next to his captain.
Bogartis had a serious wound seeping blood through his chest plate. The man Declan had just killed had sliced through the hardened leader’s armour and deep enough into Bogartis’s chest to deliver a mortal blow. Blood flowed from the sides of the captain’s mouth so Declan knew there were only minutes of life left to the old mercenary.
Bogartis reached up with his left hand and grabbed Declan’s right arm, pulling it weakly. Declan leaned over and could barely hear the old man’s voice.
‘Save … as … many … as …’ he gasped and then his grip went lax and his head fell back, vacant eyes staring at the sky.
Declan looked down at Bogartis’s body as he removed the now-limp hand from his arm. He knew this man had taught him a great deal, almost as if he were Bogartis’s son, but while he admired the man’s knowledge and ability, Declan found himself again devoid of grief or regret. He had been alive and still powerful despite his age one moment, and then suddenly dying upon the ground.
Sixto came over and saw that Bogartis was dead, his blank eyes staring skywards. He knelt and closed them, then turned his attention to Declan. He seemed on the edge of saying something, but Declan’s expression, devoid of grief or anger, stopped him. At last he said, ‘What now …?’
Declan glanced down. ‘His last instruction was to save as many of the company as possible.’
Both men stood, and Declan saw men bringing back mounts and some who had taken a moment to recover after the fight, now standing, waiting for orders.
Among his own company he recognized Toombs, Sixto, a newer recruit named Billy Jay who had come from Ilcomen, and other familiar faces – a reliable fighter named Giacomo, and the rest were Benruf’s men. More of the original company from Marquensas would be out trying to get the horses.
Suddenly it dawned on Declan that the men were waiting for him to give orders. He had been named as Bogartis’s second, and had treated that like a meaningless title, but now the reality of his responsibility struck him.
As if recognizing Declan’s need, Sixto asked, ‘What next, Captain?’
‘We have no time to bury our brothers,’ he said. ‘Gather up whatever of value you find, weapons, especially bows and arrows, and most of all, water.’
Benruf arrived leading a pair of mounts, as he said, ‘We must leave soon. It will only take the raiders a few more minutes to select their new leader, and they will be back, or another company with a different leader may be heading our way.’
Declan said, ‘What are the odds?’
Benruf shrugged. ‘Another company may not think it worth a fight to rag-pick our dead bones, but this company, they will be back. It is a blood honour.’
The men scavenged the corpses, comrade and foe alike, and quickly organized a cache of extra weapons, and every water skin they could salvage. The remaining men leading horses arrived and Declan did a quick accounting.
Only eleven of the forty men who had left North Tembria were still standing, and only four of them did he know well. The other seven were recruits Bogartis had enlisted to replace those lost in the battle at Beran’s Hill. Two of them he knew by name: Jack and Mick Sawyer, brothers who had fled from some northern timber camp; but other than the names and their family’s trade, he knew little of them. They seemed reliable, and were obviously strong and tough, but he didn’t even know the names of the five remaining of his own company.
He knew Benruf’s name only because he’d heard Bogartis address him. The mercenary captain from Zindaros had ten men with him. Twenty-two left out of forty-nine. Another man might have been overwhelmed by hopelessness, but Declan shrugged aside any doubt and simply turned to Benruf and asked, ‘Which way?’
‘As I said to Bogartis, along the coast is death. To enter the Burning Lands may also be death, but we also may find water and live.’ The sound of riders in the distance came from the city. ‘And staying here also is death.’
‘How many wounded?’ asked Declan.
‘Three can ride,’ said Sixto, indicating the men gathered before Declan. ‘Four on the ground are unable.’
Softly but firmly Declan said, ‘Quick mercy.’
Without hesitation, Sixto pulled out his sword and moved swiftly among those on the ground, ending the lives of the four unconscious men. They would endure no torture at the hands of the raiders before they died.
Declan ordered the men to mount up and with one horse being used as a pack animal, they still had two extra. He instructed two of the men to lead the spare animals. He was certain they would need them before this was over.
With a wave of his hand, Declan moved them into the desert and as they set out at a brisk canter, he could feel the heat of the afternoon rise measurably as they left the relative coolness of the coast.
He spared Bogartis one last glance as they rode away and considered once more that the only person left in the world he deeply cared for was Edvalt, back in Marquenet. Then he realized he did not know what happened with Hava and Hatu, as they were unaccounted for. Captured, most likely, he considered, and turned his mind to what was to come. He liked the couple who had purchased Gwen’s father’s inn, but they were hardly close friends; yet, he wondered what had happened to them.
HAVA WATCHED THE SAILS, JUDGING the rigging properly set and the crew well about their business. She had been focused on getting through the shoals that protected the Flame Guard’s Sanctuary for a day and a half, but a few minutes earlier she had broken from the underwater maze of reefs, shoals, and sandbars that surrounded that island, and set course to Marquensas. It was a long run with a following wind, so little tacking would be needed until she was more than halfway to their destination, then she would need to adjust as needed.
Without immediate distraction, her mind returned to her final two days with Hatushaly. There was a growing discomfort in her regarding the time they spent together. He was completely occupied, to the edge of obsession, with his studies. She knew that was his nature, but for the first time since childhood she felt neglected by him.
Sabien came to stand beside her and said, ‘Everything’s secure, Captain. Why don’t you get some rest? It’s been more than a day since we left.’
Hava’s chuckle was more irony than humour. ‘Sometimes the winds help and sometimes they don’t.’
‘Truth that,’ replied the large former mason. He dwarfed most men on the crew; Hava felt tiny when they stood side by side. Still, he followed orders without hesitation. As his predecessors had taken command of the ships she’d captured, Sabien had quickly risen from a freed prisoner to her first mate.
‘We’re still short-handed for a long voyage, so I expect all of us will be losing sleep as we go.’
‘You still haven’t named a second mate,’ he reminded her.
Hava shook her head. The unspoken politics of a crew was similar to what she’d witnessed in the gangs of Coaltachin, also known as ‘crews’. It made her more uncertain than she liked. Jealousy and rivalry could poison a crew as quickly as bad food or tainted wine. If she picked the wrong man to be giving orders to a former shipmate, she could destroy harmony and their trust in her judgement. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’ asked Hava.
‘Truth to tell, the lad Willem we picked up in Port Calos, on his way to Elsobas, has the makings of a fine sailor, but the men would never take orders from a boy that young.’
‘Then who?’
‘Probably Glyn. He’s a Port Calos sailor with a lot of experience, and he knows the waters around here better than any other. I wouldn’t think he could command his own ship, but he’s up for looking after things if you and I are both below or ashore.’
