Redemption (Book 6) (8 page)

Lockhart stared in amazement. He had never seen a sword cut so effortlessly. The blade had to be forged of the finest Balneth steel, a metal so honed and valued that it was considered almost magical.

The rider swung again, whipping the sword at the beast in a dazzling sweep of shining steel.

The edge slashed the werewolf across its chest.

The beast roared, then struck out a claw in a lightning-quick move.

The blow impacted hard against the rider’s chest, causing a ringing sound that echoed across the open hill. He flew backwards and crashed on top of the dead horse.

Lockhart started forward again, already knowing he was too far away to help.

The werewolf lifted both hands over its head, determined to bring both down in a crushing blow on the man who dared to oppose him.

The rider gave a shout and slashed forward with his rapier. The blade drove deep into the werewolf’s chest, the blood-stained tip protruding out the creature’s back.

The werewolf halted, its arms still over it head. Its eyes seemed to widen. Pink foam frothed from its mouth.

In one deft motion the rider withdrew his sword from the werewolf’s body, then swiped it through the beast’s neck in a two-handed swing.

The werewolf tumbled to the ground, its head disconnected from its body.

The barbarians, what few of them there were left after the shattering cavalry attack, gave a great cry of dismay. They turned and began to flee back towards the milefort and the burning wall.

“Cut them down!” the rider called. He wiped the blood off his rapier with a cloth rag, then motioned with his hand towards the fleeing Jombards. “Don’t leave any alive.”

Lockhart came running up to the rider, breathless.

Instinctively the man raised his rapier, the glistening point aimed at Lockhart’s throat.

Lockhart stopped cold, and raised both hands to show he meant no harm. “Captain Lockhart,” he said. “Northhampton’s Dragoon Regiment.”

The man lowered his sword. “Of course. My apologies, Captain.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lockhart said. This close he could see that the sword’s hilt was twisted into the shape of a peacock, and set with beautiful green and blue gems. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. If it hadn’t been for you and your men—” he let the sentence hang unfinished.

The rider gave a weary nod. He unlatched his helmet and pulled it off, revealing a mass of dark and sweaty hair. Half of his face was covered with twisted red burns. The cuirass he wore was dented and rent from the werewolf’s clawed strike. “We need to secure the Wall,” he said. “Get that fire put out and rebuild the palisade. The barbarians will come again.”

Lockhart glanced down at the carcass of the werewolf. He was surprised to see that the bestial form was gone, replaced by the headless body of the barbarian chieftain he had seen earlier in the battle. “That...was impressive,” he said stiltedly.

The man gave a wry half-smile. “Not the first one I’ve killed.”

Lockhart didn’t doubt of it. For he already knew that this was the general of the Redemption militia, the Hammer of the Jombards, the Demonbane who had slain the goddess Indigoru at Vorten and single-handedly closed the gate to the Void.

It was Kendril, Lord Ravenbrook.

The palisade was in ruins, a smoking heap of burnt and charred woods. Embers still danced and floated over the remains. Smoke drifted upwards from the ruin, a dark smudge against the cloudy sky.

A light rain had started to fall, which had helped to put out the fire. The falling drops sizzled as they struck the red-hot remains of the wooden wall. Bodies still covered the ground in the grass outside the milefort. More dead Jombard warriors, some burnt beyond recognition, filled the trench beyond the destroyed palisade.

The bodies of the fallen Jombards were being piled in a large heap beyond the gates of the milefort. The ravens were already settling on the corpses, flapping away in a great squawking flock whenever another body was thrown on the pile.

Kendril strode up the steps of the turf embankment towards the destroyed palisade. He cast a critical eye over the damage. “The Jombards could come again,” he said over his shoulder. “Captain Beckett, post fifty men here to guard the gap until the palisade is rebuilt.”

“Yes, sir.” A huge man with a bushy red beard and wearing the insignia of a captain in the militia strode up behind Kendril. He was dressed in the buff coat and cuirass of the cavalry, but instead of a helmet he wore a coonskin hat on his head. “With your permission, I’d like to take charge here myself.”

Kendril gave a satisfied nod. “I was hoping you would.” He gave a charred piece of wood a kick. Ashes puffed up into the air. “We need to get some kind of basic defense up again here.” He pointed across the line of the turf embankment. “Start with wooden stakes. If you can get some platforms up where the watchtowers were, post snipers. I’ll get a cannon out to you as soon as I can round one up.”

Captain Beckett rolled his shoulders. It was clear he was itching to get the heavy cuirass off as soon as possible. “What about that old pop-gun the last group of Calbraithans brought in? It’s just sitting back at Stockade.”

Kendril gave a short shake of his head. “That old thing’s so rusted I’m afraid it’ll burst at the first shot.” He turned back to Beckett. “I’ll get you a proper cannon, even if I have to steal one from the Arbelans.”

Beckett gave a snort as he looked over the destroyed palisade. “Some regulars they turned out to be. If we hadn’t come when we did—”

“That’s enough, Captain,” said Kendril shortly. “They were outnumbered and taken by surprise. They held out longer than most would have against such odds.”

Beckett straightened at the rebuke. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

Kendril kept one hand on the hilt of his sheathed rapier. He peered out towards the dark woods past the burnt remnants of the Wall. “They’ll come again.”

Beckett spat on the ground. “Sure as rain they will, sir.”

“When they do,” Kendril continued in a quiet voice, “you hold the line here as long as you can. I’ll get reinforcements to you.”

“I feel I should remind you, Lord Ravenbrook,” came a voice from behind them, “that the Wall and its defense are the charge of the Arbelan government.”

Kendril and Beckett turned to see Captain Lockhart climbing the steps up to the turf wall.

“Yeah,” Beckett mumbled through his beard, “and look where
that
got us, you stuck-up—”

“
Beckett
,” said Kendril under his breath.

The giant militiaman held his tongue.

Lockhart reached the top of the embankment. “My dragoons can hold this section, General.”

Beckett let out a guffaw.

Kendril gave his subordinate a cutting glance before turning his attention back to Lockhart. “I’m sure you’ll agree, Captain, that given the circumstances it is in both of our interests to work together here.”

“That’s not what I heard,” said Lockhart, his head held high. “Hangman’s Hill still falls under the protection of the Arbelan Protectorate, and Northampton’s Dragoon Regiment has been assigned to man it.” He gave the fuming Beckett a sidelong glance. “With respect, that means that I still have command here at Hangman’s Hill, not Captain Beckett.”

Beckett flexed the fingers on his calloused hands, as if he were going to reach out and strangle the dragoon captain. “Why you insufferable piece of—”

“And I should remind you, Captain,” said Kendril icily, “that Arbela is a long ways from here.”

Lockhart stood his ground. “I hardly see how that matters.”

Kendril mused for a moment in silence. His eyes gazed steadily at Captain Lockhart. “Fair enough,” he said finally. “Captain Beckett, you and your men will answer to Captain Lockhart while you’re at Hangman’s Hill.”

“You’re twisting my beard,” Beckett rumbled. “If you think that I’ll—”

“I think,” said Kendril quickly, “that you’ll follow my orders, Captain.”

Beckett straightened. He gave a reluctant salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, Captain Lockhart,” said Kendril in the same quiet tone, “do you have any issue with my posting Beckett and these cavalry troopers here at Hangman’s Hill for the time being?”

Lockhart gave a slow shake of his head. “No.”

“I think you forgot something, Captain,” Kendril said again. His body hadn’t moved, nor had his voice changed, but there was a flash in his dark eyes.

Lockhart remembered the way he had seen Lord Ravenbrook dispatch the werewolf. He took a deep breath. “No,
sir
.”

Kendril nodded. “I’ll contact Yearling and inform him that militia cavalry have been posted here for the time being. And Captain Beckett here will be sending me updates on your progress in rebuilding the Wall.”

Beckett gave Lockhart a big, toothy grin.

“Yes, sir.” Lockhart bit back the response he wanted to give.

“Very well.” Kendril turned his head and glanced out at the dark forest again. His face wore a grim look.

Captain Beckett lowered his voice. “Are you hurt, sir?”

Kendril glanced down and noticed that he had been unconsciously rubbing the dented cuirass he wore. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Just some bruises.” He returned his gaze to the east.

Lockhart followed Kendril’s stare. “They threw everything they had at us, sir, and we stopped them cold.”

Kendril didn’t answer for a long moment. At last he spoke, in the same quiet tone as before. “The Jombards haven’t even begun to throw everything they have at us, Captain.”

Chapter 5

A fight had broken out among the barbarians.

Two men, each with weapons drawn, paced around each other warily, looking for an opening in the other’s guard. One, a Jombard from the northern tribes, was already bleeding from his nose. The other, a Jombard chieftain from one of the eastern tribes, was grinning in anticipation of more blood. Each man was huge, covered with scar tissue and bulging muscles.

A crowd of screaming, cheering Jombards had already surrounded the two, forming a ring of spectators. Dogs ran around between the shouting barbarians, barking and yelping as they searched for stray bones and bits of meat abandoned from the nearby tables. The barbarian women were just as violent and active as the men, shrieking curses and throwing stones. Some had already drawn daggers.

It was a disaster waiting to happen. Depending on the result of this little brawl, two of the Jombard tribes could very well get into an all-out battle that could spill over into the rest of the camp. It was the kind of thing that so easily destroyed these fragile alliances among the pagan peoples of Rothland, who were more used to fighting each other than working together for a common cause.

The first Jombard warrior spat blood from his mouth onto the moss-covered stones under his feet. He growled a warning.

The second Jombard, the chieftain from the east, gave a croaking laugh. He lifted a greataxe in both hands with a grin.

The first Jombard hurled himself forward in a fury, his sword held high to strike.

Bronwyn didn’t look to see what happened next. She walked past the ruckus, very deliberately keeping her face forward and her expression calm. She threaded her way carefully between overturned stools, puddles of spilled beer, and long wooden tables.

A thunder of cheers came from the circle of barbarians to Bronwyn’s left.

She studiously ignored it. And tried to ignore the hammering of her heart in her chest.

The day was well under way, but here in the Hall of the Stone Trees it was cold. It was always cold here, or at least it
seemed
cold. Whether that was because of all the stone that filled the place, or because of a magic that was too deep and ancient to remember, or something else entirely, Bronwyn did not know.

She suspected, especially in the deep of night when she could not sleep, and the darkness seemed to stare right back at her, that the coldness was due to all the souls of the dead that still lingered in this place. For the Hall of the Stone Trees was also a place of blood and sorrow. It had been ever since before anyone could remember.

The ancient Rajathans had built it long ago, back when Jothland had been the heart of their empire. Then the Hall had been a great temple, perhaps
the
great temple of their domains. Even now, after centuries of wind, rain, and decay, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

In her more heretical moments, Bronwyn found herself wishing that she could see it as it had once been, before the first great Despair and the coming of the Seteru into Zanthora.

Massive pillars, carved in the shape and style of trees, flanked the walls on either side, and stretched for more than a hundred feet into the air. The vaulted ceiling had partially collapsed in places, leaving piles of rubble and stone on the huge antechamber below. Moss, ivy, and vegetation of all sorts grew up through the cracks of the stone, giving the Hall a strangely arboreal look. Sunlight streamed in through the huge holes in the ceiling. Birds flitted around in the stone arches of the expansive rafters and buttresses above, twittering and chirping endlessly. Their cries echoed in the vast expanse of hall.

Behind Bronwyn came the clang of metal on metal, and another screaming cheer from the crowd of onlookers. She kept walking.

Statues had once lined either side of the hall. Over time they had been defaced and vandalized by worshippers of the Seteru, so that now none of their features remained.

It was ironic to consider the depths to which this place, once considered so holy by the Rajathans, had fallen over the centuries. This had once been a huge hall filled with the smell of incense and burning sacrifice, echoing with the chants of priests and the murmured prayers of petitioners. Now it was filled with the stench of human filth and sweat, and echoed with the harsh cries of barbarians.

Still, whenever Bronwyn chanced to glance up at the vastness of the ancient temple, she found it hard to restrain a shiver of awe at the majesty of the lost Rajathans.

The Great Fang had made the Hall of the Stone Trees his temporary residence. All the Jombard tribes of Rothland, at least those who were wise enough to fear his power, had come at his summons. Even some of the Hagar from the Wastelands to the far north had come, eager for spoil and war.