The Blood King (12 page)

Pell cast a look at Mikhail. “If more of your kind are on Prince Martris’s side, Jared’s men will even be afraid to sleep.”

Mikhail smiled, his long eye teeth discomforting-ly apparent. “That’s the idea.”

AFTER TWO WEEKS, Soterius and Mikhail were ready to test the skills of their best recruits from among the refugees. Sahila’s scouts brought news of a small squad of Margolan soldiers camped just over the border, and gave eyewitness accounts of the Margolan soldiers making night raids across the Principality border to harry the refugees. It was good enough provocation for Soterius.

For this first strike, Soterius chose his best men: Mikhail, Pell, Tabb, Andras, Sahila, Tadrie, and five others who had shown promise with the sword in training. Soterius spent a portion of his part of the reward money to buy weapons and leather armor for the group. He had black woolen outfits and cloaks made that would allow them to move unob-served in the dark.

Sahila led them through the low brush toward the border. It was obvious to Soterius that Sahila knew the land well, and that he had a tracker’s instincts for cover and direction.

“They cross here—look,” Sahila motioned toward the blurred tracks in the snow where a recent snowfall had not yet obscured the passage of a group of men on foot. Sahila, Soterius, and Mikhail had conferred at length before heading out as to the best place for an ambush. Now that they had reached Sahila’s recommended spot, Soterius looked around in the dim light. From the flat area where the Margolan strike force was camped, the land became hillier the closer one got to the refugee camps on the Principality side of the border.

This trail ran along the edge of the forest, between the trees and a ridge. The trees and the rocky outcrop-ping could provide cover for Soterius’s refugee-soldiers. With Mikhail, Soterius was less worried about wolves or other predators in the for-est should they have to run for cover.

“It’s good,” Mikhail said of the ambush point.

“Let’s get in position, just like we practiced.” The small band of refugee fighters gathered around Soterius. Within minutes his men were in position, careful to cover their tracks in the snow. Soterius smiled. Most of these men had been hunting—or poaching—all their lives, and the same skills that enabled them to feed their families would now make it possible for them to strike back at the sol-diers who had taken those lands from them.

“You’re sure the soldiers are going to come tonight?” he asked Mikhail under his breath.

“They were getting ready to move when I scout-ed the camp. Looked like they meant to take prisoners. They had a large box on skis that they could pull behind a horse team.”

Soterius frowned. “Then all the better we strike tonight.”

They did not have long to wait.

When the moon was high in the sky, the Margolan soldiers made their move.

Mikhail was the first to hear them, and he gave the silent signal to the watching fighters. The soldiers moved over the rise and down along the forest’s edge.

Soterius pursed his lips. Behind the soliders was a man lead-ing two cart horses through the snow, and pulled behind the horses was the large box on skis.

“What the hell is that box for?” Soterius mur-mured to Mikhail under his breath.

They waited for the target to move into the most vulnerable point along the ridge, where they were fully exposed to both the fighters who waited above them hidden in the brush along the outcropping, and the archers who lurked in the shadows of the forest.

The Margolan soldiers were armed and alert. They could have no other purpose than to strike at the refugee camps, the only cluster of habitation close to the border near this point. The soldiers were already on Principality soil, an act of war in itself. Still, Soterius’s heart beat faster when he saw the insignia on those uniforms. He was about to begin the war against his own homeland. He wait-ed to give the signal for attack until the Margolan troops were in the middle of the pass.

“Now.” He lifted a branch above the brush where he hid, so that the archers in the forest could see.

A hail of arrows burst from the cover of the dark trees, taking down three of the lead Margolan sol-diers before they knew they were under attack. Soterius’s fighters swarmed down the hillside, swords glinting in the moonlight, with a battle cry that echoed in the night. Soterius realized Mikhail was no longer beside him. He glimpsed the vayasb moru at the rear of the doomed soldiers, already discarding a body.

The Margolan soldiers regrouped quickly, and soon Soterius was parrying blows with the group’s captain, a man he did not recognize, who looked to be only a few years older than himself. Around him he could hear arrows striking the deep snow. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sahila and the other refugee soldiers wading into the fight.

The Margolan captain struck hard and Soterius parried, feeling the jolt of the strike down his arm.

Soterius turned the momentum into a strike of his own, scoring a deep gash on the soldier’s shoulder. He let his knife fall from its wrist scabbard into his hand. He circled the soldier warily, his second blade ready.

“We have no gold for you, brigand.” The captain struck again, landing a good blow against Soterius’s sword and leaping back as Soterius nearly scored again with his knife.

“You’re on Principality land, here to harm your own people.” Soterius took the offensive, landing a series of hard blows that the captain was hard-pressed to deflect. “And you serve the Usurper.”

“We serve King Jared, the rightful king of Margolan.” The captain’s strike went wild. Soterius’s left hand slashed with the knife, cutting the soldier’s forearm to the bone.

“You serve the demon.” Soterius doubled his press, forcing the captain backward. The snow shifted beneath his feet, and Soterius gained the advantage he sought, using his sword to deflect the captain’s blade while he sank his own knife deep into the man’s chest. “Prepare to meet the Crone.” Surprise spread across the captain’s face as blood spread across his tunic.

“Behind you!” Soterius heard the warning and wheeled, barely parrying the wild attack of a young soldier who made up in ferocity what he lacked in technique.

Around them, Soterius’s refugee fighters were holding their own, and the archers joined them, trading their bows for swords now that the fighting had begun.

As the horses shied and whinnied, the soldier nearest to the large wooden box brought his sword

down on the lock, cutting through the rope that secured it. He wheeled too late to meet the sword of one of Soterius’s refugee fighters, and the sword took the lieutenant through the chest.

“Sweet Chenne,” Soterius murmured as the box door flew open, pushed from within. Bursting from the box were a half a dozen wild-eyed fighters swinging sledgehammers and axes. With incoherent cries, the ragged fighters streamed from their prison, as the Margolan soldiers scrambled to get out of the way.

Soterius wasted no time on his inexperienced opponent. He ran the man through, turning to face this new threat. He heard a cry from Tadrie to his left; the refugee seemed frozen in place, a look of horror on his face as one of the rag-tag fighters advanced. “Pell, Andras, Tabb—I need you!” Soterius cried out as several other refugee soldiers seemed to lose their focus, staring at the wild-eyed fighters as if they were spirits from the abyss.

Dimly, Soterius realized that the few Margolan soldiers who were still alive were running for the forest, and that Mikhail was nowhere to be seen on the battlefield.

“By the Whore, what are they?” Pell cried out. Soterius tackled Tadrie to get him out of the way of the attacking creature’s hammer. Now that he was close enough to see their new opponents, only Soterius’s battle training kept him from staring in shock like the refugee fighters. There was some-thing very wrong with the fighters who streamed from the wagon, who waded into the battle heed-less oi whom they hit, striking as indiscriminately against the Margolan soldiers as against Soterius’s stealth fighters.

“Find out if they bleed!” Soterius shouted as he dragged Tadrie to his feet. Pell and Andras closed ranks in front of him. “Stand your ground!”

“Back from the dead,” Tadrie was murmuring, staring uncomprehendingly at the fighter who was striking so ferociously that both Pell and Andras were hard pressed to keep him at bay.

From the forest, Soterius heard a man’s scream, and guessed that Mikhail was cleaning up the Margolan soldiers who had run for cover beneath the trees.

“You won’t come back from the dead,” Soterius shouted at Tadrie, shaking the man. “Fight!”

Soterius heard one of the rag-tag fighters approach and turned, still shielding Tadrie. Now up close, Soterius knew these fighters were no common back-up troops. There was more than rage in their eyes—there was a complete lack of humanity, as if the soul itself had been replaced with blood mad-ness. Unkempt and unshaven, smelling of sweat and waste, the rag-tag fighters fought with insane feroc-ity. The fighter’s wild blow broke Soterius’s sword, and Soterius dove aside, feeling the axe graze his shoulder. Blood streamed down his left arm but he could still move it, and he had no time to triage his wounds. Snatching up a sword from one of the fall-en Margolan soldiers, Soterius swung two-handed, knowing that a madman wielding a battle axe could easily best a swordsman before too many blows were traded.

The wild-eyed fighter swung again. He was a burly man with the look of a farmer, wide-jawed

and broad-shouldered, built like a bear. He roared in attack, and Soterius could see no reason in the man’s eyes. There was nowhere to run. Soterius threw his knife, catching the big man in the thigh. Blood streamed from his leg and into the snow, but the axe-wielding fighter did not slow, as if pain meant nothing to him.

Sure he was about to die Soterius braced himself, looking for an opening. As the man lifted his axe to swing he stiffened and his head jerked up, blood spurting from his mouth. With a death rattle, the big man keeled forward, Tadrie’s sword through his back. Soterius realized he was shaking as he met Tadrie’s eyes, and saw the farmer’s look of complete horror and revulsion.

There was no time to ask questions. Snatching up the dead man’s axe, Soterius lifted the heavy blade and went running at full speed toward the attackers that were driving Pell and Andras back to back. With a wild cry he swung the blade, cleaving one of the madmen practically in two. Tadrie seemed to have snapped from his trance, dropping his sword and grabbing a sledgehammer from one of the dead men. He swung the hammer in wide swaths, closing on Pell’s attacker.

Soterius could see that tears glis-tened on the farmer’s face and he could hear Tadrie murmuring a prayer for the dead. Andras and Soterius made a frontal strike, rushing at the rag-tag fighter with a ferocity that matched his own madness and striking with sword and axe. Tadrie’s hammer fell from behind, taking off the back of the man’s head.

“I want one of them alive!” Soterius knew as he said it that he was asking a lot from his own men, who, having neatly routed the Margolan troops, were barely holding their own against these berserker fighters. Three of the madmen were still standing, and Soterius could only count half a dozen of his own men on their feet. The trampled snow was red with blood, and bodies littered the space between the hillside and the forest.

There was a rush of air beside him, and a blur of motion. Soterius glimpsed Mikhail as the vayash moru struck at one of the madmen attacking Sahila and another fighter. Soterius jerked his head, and Pell and Andras fell behind him at a run, stopping only for Pell to snatch up the axe from the dead madman’s hands.

Sahila swung his heavy two-handed sword in wide swaths, trying to keep his distance from the madman who was advancing, completely heedless of the blade. As they grew closer it was apparent that Sahila’s companion was badly wounded, but he attempted to back up Sahila nonetheless. Soterius watched in horror as Sahila’s blade connected with the advancing fighter, severing his arm at the shoul-der. Still the madman came on, with no hint in his expression that the pain even registered. Soterius, Pell, and Andras charged from behind.

Soterius let his axe fly when he came into range. The heavy weapon spun handle over blade, until it hit with a sickening thud in the middle of the madman’s back. The big man dropped to his knees without a sound, and fell face-forward into the snow.

To his left, Soterius saw Mikhail engage another of the madmen, while across the way, Tadrie and one of the other refugee fighters were holding their own against the last of the attackers, keeping him at bay until a third refugee hurled a large rock at the madman’s head. The madman fell and lay still.

Soterius looked around. From the position of the moon, barely a candlemark had passed since they attacked the Margolan soldiers. “Check the bod-ies!” he shouted. “Don’t leave any of our own!” Grimly, the men still on their feet began to check the fallen, dispatching one or two of the badly wounded Margolan soldiers who had not yet died with a merciful sword strike.

One of the fighters was already calming the hors-es, and after carefully checking the box that was still hitched to the harness, he waved for his fellows to begin the grim work of bringing the dead and those too badly wounded to walk into the wagon.

“A little assistance, if you please.” Mikhail did not even sound winded, although he pinned the last of the berserker fighters in his grip. Soterius, Pell, and Tabb ran to help him, grabbing rope from the soldiers’ packs. They trussed up the struggling mad-man from shoulders to ankles, taking no chances. The man struggled and bucked with his full might, but where Soterius should have expected a captured soldier to curse them and spew profanities the berserker raged incoherently. Up close, the madness in the captured man’s eyes was even more disturb-ing, as if his humanity had been stripped away, leaving something feral in its place. Soterius noted as they bound the man that the prisoner was badly wounded, with deep gashes that would have dis-abled a normal soldier.

“Let’s get them to the healers,” Soterius sighed, wiping the blood off his hands in the snow. Mikhail lifted the trussed-up madman with immortal ease; the wagon shuddered when Mikhail dropped his cargo in. Pell counted as they loaded bodies and wounded men into the wagon, while Sahila took roll among the surviving fighters. Three of their own were dead. Three more, including Tadrie, were too badly wounded to walk back to camp.