Beyond the Bulwarks Read online

Greaus shrugged away as he strode, bawling out to the middle of the bridge. “You goat-fucking, boy-fucking bastards, hear me! You will pay!”

  “Greaus,” Anzo called at his back, “this cannot have been the Hamraks!”

  “This was our brother!” The chieftain ranted on as though he had not heard. Would not hear. “We will repay his blood in kind.” On the opposite side of the bridge, undergrowth shivered and dark forms materialized, silent as starlight winked on arms and armor. “You will die slow, watching us drink your blood!” A wild cackle shook his body. “We will feast on your organs!”

  Anzo let his gaze fall to Ulfun again, sickness filling the back of his throat at last. With Greaus’ mad challenges and rattling laughter in his ears, he knelt and closed the slain warrior’s eyes with his fingertips. He licked his lips to dampen away the taste of bile and fear.

  He knew it couldn’t have been the Hamraks. He knew the murderer had to be much closer. The moment before the killer shadow had vanished into the waterfall-swept dark of the gorge there had been a flash of something he could only process now.

  It had looked at Anzo with yellow eyes.

  Chapter Six

  The Harpy’s Feast

  Anzo sat at the foot of the stone table, his eyes blazing hatred at the drawn curtain of Henna’s side cave. For once, her vile smoke and mad rhythms didn’t cloud the air. She hadn’t been seen since Ulfun’s murder. But Anzo knew she was there, twitching over her drum in her stinking haze, her yellow eyes burning unseen through the partition.

  Yellow eyes.

  Greaus paced the tabletop, his strides uncertain as he quivered and pulled at his whiskers and ranted. “They will die. They will all of them die!”

  Anzo let his gaze drift to the chieftain, watched the agitated Vhurr hobble and grip at his massive bulk as though something would rip its way free. He wondered how much the man knew. He wondered if his sword shouldn’t find that fat belly, first.

  “And I want Durrim,” Greaus growled, gesticulating wildly at the other Flinnar seated around the table. “I want to watch. I want to eat out his liver.”

  Anzo gripped his sword till the tingling of his fingers forced relaxation. Easy, old weasel. There’ll be time to know. He glanced around at the others, knew from the feverish devotion still fluttering behind their eyes that they were still with their chief. They had to be. It was all they knew. There’ll be time...just not yet.

  “I am ready,” he said into settling quiet.

  Greaus whirled on him. “Oh, now you are ready Slayer? Now you’re done waiting?”

  Anzo accepted the barb with an upheld chin. “Ulfun was my brother.” His gaze flicked momentarily to Henna’s curtain. He might have smiled. “I will have his murderer.”

  Greaus’ shivering form stilled and the berserker glow faded slightly from his face. “Good...” He strode down the table, the stares of the Flinarr following until they came to rest on Anzo. Greaus hooked his thumbs into the belt practically hidden under the sag of his gut and glowered down at him. “Good, Slayer.” He nodded with some kind of decision made. “You will wait until after midnight. You will take the Narrow Stairs. Deanid will show you the way.”

  One of the Flinarr who normally stood guard at the chieftain’s hall rose unsteadily from his seat at the table. “M-my lord?”

  “It is a cave known only to us,” Greaus continued without acknowledging the other man. “It leads up under the falls and comes out above the creek that feeds them. You will fall on the Hamrak cowards from the night.”

  Anzo nodded sharply. “How many will I have?”

  “Yourself, Deanid...” Greaus shrugged. “Pick four others.”

  “Six men?” The absurdity of the order rocked Anzo back, even though the actual details meant little to his plans at this point. “Even with surprise, Lord, six is nothing against thirty!”

  Greaus cackled unpleasantly. “There you go with numbers again.”

  “Give me ten, at least,” Anzo pressed. “You can hold the bridge with a handful.”

  “Are you such a coward—”

  Greaus cut off in mid-eruption, his face pinching in agony as his hands shot to his abdomen. Knuckles whitened about the bulge and sweat blossomed across his creasing brow. One of the Flinarr rose to offer him a hand but he slapped it away and fought on alone against some internal pain. It passed, finally, though his voice only returned with a rasp. “Are you so soft, Slayer, after years as the Aurids’ plaything that you no longer hear Orkall calling you?

  “It’s suicide!” Anzo blurted.

  “It is glory!!!”

  The faces of the Flinarr peeled slowly away from their stricken leader to Anzo. He realized he’d drawn his saber an inch from its sheath and was half-risen from a crouch. With more will than it had taken him to weather a night in the Halls of the Temple of Thoth, he slid the blade home again and settled back at the foot of the table.

  A disturbance at the entrance to the hall was a relief to everyone. Anzo looked over his shoulder to see Heathen’s bulk filling the chamber. He towered over the nearest Flinarr, empty-handed but smiling as though weapons held little fear for him. His cold blue eyes flicked to Anzo’s and the smile acquired teeth, bright and defiant.

  Greaus eyed the monstrous youth, a touch of calculation played about his face. “Ah, fine...happy now, Slayer? You have seven.”

  “And I will take them.” His voice still unsteady, he cleared his throat. “What of you, my lord?”

  “When we can hear your part of the battle fully joined, we will strike across the bridge.” Greaus pumped a fist into the air. “We will be at their throats while they are still dreaming of the fire hall they forsook for a fool’s quest!”

  ***

  Varya was waiting for Anzo and Heathen’s return at their campsite, hands folded together, her face stretched with apprehension. “It was my fault,” she said as they settled in around the sooty smear that remained of their fire. “I sent him.”

  Heathen clapped Anzo on the shoulder. “She worried you were in trouble again.”

  Anzo chuckled and shook his head. “Well...thank you. I might have been.”

  An overcast had stolen the gleam of a midday sun, casting much of the cavern of the Flinarr into a thick, gray gloom to match its occupants’ mood. The Stone Folk remained in their huddles, as always, the last of their firewood sputtering into cinders. The warriors were breaking up outside Greaus’ cave, none of the bravado, now, the realization of their predicament weighing down shoulders as they picked their separate ways back to their kin.

  Anzo drew the curtain. “How much did you hear?”

  Heathen snorted. “Enough to know that we’re dead.”

  “We’re not dying.” Anzo stopped the other man with a hand on his massive bicep. “I need to pick the men, for tonight. I need lads who might be—persuaded to another solution.”

  The huge Vhurr grinned. Varya’s healing had done its work and fiery energy licked in even the little motion. “Geasid and Ilus. They were Ulfun’s men. Geasid was the one on the watch post last night, might have seen some of what you...” The smile slipped. “Deanid’s a problem,” he continued in rush to be away from dark thoughts. “He’s Greaus’ man, though I’m sure he’s none too happy to be along for this hunt. He’ll be there to make sure none waver.”

  “We’ll handle him. What about these Narrow Stairs?”

  “They’ll bring us out in the boulders just above the Hamrak’s camp,” Heathen replied. “It’s a good plan, actually. With more men we’d have a slim chance of taking Durrim.”

  “I’m not interested in taking him,” Anzo said.

  “I know.” Heathen patted his shoulder again, even the light touch very nearly hammer blows. “But have you considered he may not be interested in more than slaying us?”

  Varya sucked in a breath.

  “I can’t worry about that,” Anzo said harshly. “This is our chance.” He forced himself to meet Varya’s stare. “We’ll have to leave you. I’m sorry.
”

  “I’ll be all right.” Varya tugged her cloak about her.

  Anzo thought of Ulfun’s torn corpse—a body the Flinarr hadn’t even had the wood to give a warrior’s pyre, had simply cast into the falls like garbage. He grimaced. “Varya...”

  “I will be all right,” she repeated. A fragile smile fluttered at her lips. “I know something of how to protect myself, as you know.”

  “It was Henna,” Anzo growled. “I know it. By the gods, what manner of creature is she?”

  “Nothing human.” Varya took up a stick, drew odd patterns in the cooled cinders of their fire. Purple sparks trailed each stroke. After a few moments of the scribbling she scuffed them away with a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know. I said before that there is sickness here. She is the heart of it.” The Initiate squared her shoulders. “If she thinks to find another victim with me, she will find herself much mistaken.”

  “We’ll be back for you,” Heathen declared, gave his chest a gentle thump.

  Anzo reached for her arm, squeezed. “We will. I promise.”

  Varya reached up to clasp the hand. “I know you will.”

  ***

  With midnight passed, the men gathered at the entrance to the Narrow Stairs, barely a crack in the rear of a small alcove where the tribe typically stored firewood—when they had any. Anzo stuck a torch into the dark beyond and let its edgy flutter illuminate a sharp, dusty climb punctuated unevenly with jagged tiers of rock. Narrow Stairs, indeed.

  He turned to regard his little command. Heathen leaned nonchalantly against a wall, animal skin tunic mended where Anzo’s blade had pierced it, another hide draped as a cloak over his shoulders, cinched at the neck by crude ties probably fashioned by Varya. He returned Anzo’s attention with a lazy grin as he played with a cudgel that looked little more than a stick in his huge hand.

  A pair of Vhurrs—brothers, apparently—who’d volunteered early in the evening lingered at the rear of the cave entrance, as though they were already half a step into retreat, armed only with clubs and sharpened sticks for spears. Geasid and Ilus, Ulfun’s former enforcers, waited nearest Anzo in frayed leather corselets with iron-tipped spears and hollow expressions. Their faces warmed with barely-concealed anger when they glanced at Deanid, the seventh to round out the forlorn hope. Greaus had gifted his picked man with Ulfun’s leavings, the murdered warrior’s helm and armored vest ridiculously oversized for the scrawny man’s frame. He had Ulfun’s blade, too, his hand never leaving its handle.

  Anzo hid a sigh. He’d seen that cornered animal’s doom on the faces of men going into battle before. Victory was rarely born from such brittle courage.

  Not that victory’s the point...terror could be to our advantage.

  Thunder rumbled distantly, shuddered in the rock under the feet. Greaus joined the party in a jangle of mail barely containing his bulk. He clapped Deanid on the shoulder before fixing Anzo with a deadly stare. “It’s time, Slayer.”

  Anzo nodded. “We will bring Durrim back to you, Lord.”

  “Bring us victory or don’t come back, at all.”

  “As you say, my lord.”

  Greaus glanced around at the others, pumped a fist into the air, and left.

  Anzo suppressed a scowl. “All right,” he said to the others, “quietly now.” He drew his sword and pointed it at Deanid. “You first, with me behind you—” the blade bobbed at Heathen “—and you, at my back.” He nodded at the brothers. “You two will follow him and Geasid and Ilus have the rear.”

  Deanid offered Anzo a cautious grin and led the way. The party sidled into the crack, lit in the tossing glow of Anzo’s torch, breaths and grunts echoing against cool rock. The Narrow Stairs climbed, footing uncertain on jumbled gravel and shifting dust, walls rippling inward until men had to push themselves through. Anzo thought he heard the thunder again, though it could have been the pummeling of his own pulse. Claustrophobia didn’t bother him, but the sudden fear that the Stairs might go nowhere, that this might be a trap with the cave being sealed at their rear did.

  Heathen jumbled close to Anzo when they hit a bottleneck and had to wait on Deanid to work his way through. Anzo made to hiss at pitch fluttering off the torch to conceal the young Vhurr’s whisper at his ear. “When we come out, leave the brothers at the exit as a ‘rearguard’.” Heathen’s palm rested on Anzo’s shoulder. “Geasid and Ilus are with us.”

  Anzo nodded tightly.

  Deanid hissed from further up the passage. Anzo worked his way through the bottleneck to join him. He heard the thunder clearly now, an irregular thud uncomfortably like Henna’s drumming. Behind that a liquid rush spoke of water. “It’s just ahead,” Deanid said. “I’ll go up, make certain it’s clear.”

  Anzo waved him on his way. He waited as the rest squeezed their way close. Moments later Deanid returned, Ulfun’s helm bobbing on his slim skull. “Douse that.” He gestured at the torch and Anzo complied. “The way is clear.”

  With the sharp exhalations of men steeling themselves, the party scrambled the last couple dozen feet to the top of the Narrow Stairs. Forest air, damp and green, greeted them, along with the susurrus of the creek, a tossing, foamy channel through the shadows to their left. Boulders loomed in the poor light, illuminated by flickers of lightning through the canopy, a mismatched jumbling like a god’s discarded toys. A quick scan of their position revealed campfires jeweled in the darkness below them to the right.

  “Listen,” Anzo said, looking around the little party before setting his gaze on the brothers. “I want the two of you to remain here.”

  “What are you—” Deanid began.

  “Should someone work their way around us, we need the way home clear,” Anzo cut him off.

  “But that will leave us—” the skinny man’s face worked with the embarrassment that he could obviously not count “—well, it leaves us less.”

  “I was told not to worry about numbers,” Anzo shot back. He pointed his sword at the brothers. “When you hear the battle joined, come running.” He looked at Deanid again, grinned unpleasantly. “Unless you have another idea?”

  Deanid looked away, adjusted Ulfun’s helm on his crown before shrugging.

  “Good. Come on.”

  The remaining five of the party scampered into the woods. Lightning flashes caught the forlorn hope in momentary images. They settled quickly into a thin line with Geasid and Ilus falling back at the flanks and Heathen beginning to drift towards Deanid. The fires of the Hamraks glittered ahead. A pattern became clear; an uneven circle of smaller blazes around a larger one. Thunder didn’t quite drown out hard chuckles as men jostled and joked in the warmth of their blazes and companionship. Someone was singing by the big fire, a bard giving music to the glories of their leader and their group’s deeds.

  That was where Anzo needed to be.

  He drew up suddenly and glanced over his shoulder at Heathen, now creeping up at Deanid’s flank. The skinny man started to turn as the huge Vhurr’s shadow loomed over. Ulfun’s blade was nearly from its sheath before Heathen put his hand to the side of Deanid’s face and stiff-armed him skull-first into a tree trunk. The helmet spun off at a wide angle. Deanid slid to the forest loam without sound.

  Anzo spun as Geasid and Ilus darted to the disturbance, his blade held at a high guard while Heathen pivoted to face them. “Now,” he growled, “I’m guessing you two know what we’re about out here. If you don’t, the choice is before you. Die here.” Anzo sent a jerky nod towards the Hamrak’s fires. “Or live there.”

  The men who’d been Ulfun’s enforcers eyed him in tense silence, hands at the shafts of spears. One of them, Geasid, relaxed finally and knelt to pick up Ulfun’s fallen helmet, put it on his head where it fit rather better. “We’re with you.”

  “Aye,” Ilus added. “To the Endless Hells with Greaus. He’s mad. I’m not dying for such a man.”

  Anzo shared a smile with Heathen. “All right, then.” He lowered his blade slightly. “If we have to figh
t, fight. Otherwise, we go in quiet like. The big fire’s the place.”

  They moved on and in.

  Four Hamrak ringed the nearest fire, huge, well-armed men with blonde locks lit golden in the camp glow. Two lay snoring in twists of blanket, cracked wine jugs discarded in shards by the blaze. A third stood opposite the fire from Anzo, arms folded before his chest, eyeing the dark in slack, bleary boredom. A fourth had his back to Anzo, leaned against a tree.

  Anzo pointed the third out to Heathen, who for all his mass vanished soundlessly into the trees. Geasid and Ilus he waved to wait in reserve and slid up close behind the fourth.

  Thunder clapped, shocked the woods with its harsh racket. Anzo moved in, dashing the pommel of his saber into the guard’s temple. The Hamrak dropped to his knees and flopped face-first beside the campfire.

  The third Hamrak started to shout at the sight of his comrade struck to the earth by a shadow. But Heathen’s forearm blurred from the night to chop across his windpipe. Wheezing, the Hamrak fumbled for a hand axe. Heathen’s follow-up blow with the cudgel sent the horned helmet spinning from his skull into the fire and the man plunging senselessly to the ground.

  One of the sleeping Hamrak sat up with drink-laden eyelids and the beginning of a curse. Heathen’s backhanded blow sent blood spouting and the man back into unconsciousness. Anzo gave the last snoring Hamrak a kick to the base of the skull for good measure.

  Geasid and Ilus swept in from the dark. Ilus put the point of his spear to the throat of the first Hamrak. Anzo waved him off with a hiss. “No! We want allies, here; not more blood.” He gestured them in close. “Take up their helmets, gear, and blankets and make like Hamrak might. Wait for us.”

  While the pair took on their new roles as Hamrak guards, Anzo led Heathen further into the camp. The largest fire blossomed ahead. The bard’s voice sounded clearly now, high and smooth, to the murmured acclamation of the men. Firelight caught in bronze flecks on chain mail, burnished shield bosses, stacked spears, and decorated helms. Broad-jawed, whiskered visages crinkled, huge, powerful men joking and boasting. These would be Durrim’s retinue, the picked men who accumulated around a successful warlord.