Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy) Page 3

  Putting on an air of confidence, the young wizard faced the newcomers.

  “What’s all this, then?” he demanded.

  The leader regarded him quietly for a moment, brown pinpoints of light roving. After a moment he spoke, his voice like crunching slate.

  “You’ve come for the Master, Falkshire” it was not a question.

  “Indeed I have, but I don’t see what that has to do with the four of you skulking about, accosting people in the dead of night. What is the meaning of this?” the young wizard attempted to put some authority into his voice, concentrating on keeping it from wavering. He half succeeded.

  The leader grunted what may have been a chuckle and made a motion to his nearest accomplice. The shorter man stepped forward, coming within a foot of Reynolt’s face. He barked a guttural word and snapped a quick gesture.

  Reynolt doubled over as pain wracked his head. A dispel, his mind reeled. Struggling to sort through the confusing waves of energy washing through his mind and body, the young wizard straitened and opened his eyes.

  As the pain ebbed, he realized his guess had been correct, for his vision was severely impaired, which was to say normal. He was familiar with dispels, and could enact them himself, but none that caused such pain. He fought off panic as his eyes readjusted to the night.

  “You are in a position to demand nothing,” Gravel Voice rasped before nodding to the other men. They increased their grip on Reynolt and began to walk him down the street, toward the ocean.

  “What is this, some kind of initiation? I hadn’t heard that old man Falkshire was starting his own school,” the young wizard offered, keeping his tone light and trying to play along.

  Silence replied. More and more the fears of the lord mages returned to his thoughts and Reynolt began to accept that perhaps he should consider enacting his planned contingency as opposed to playing dumb. Something told him to stay his hand, however, and the group continued to the shore where they turned and followed the stony path to the master’s tower.

  If the lord mages were correct, young Reynolt was being dragged into the lair of an inhuman villain who’d aligned himself with sinister powers capable of massive destruction.

  He tried to hide his smile.

  Chapter 2

  As the rain dribbled down his face to drip from his nose, Hade bit down on one end the strip of cloth he was tying around his wounded bicep. With a wince, he cinched the dressing tight, hoping to keep the blood loss from ruining his chances of getting through the night alive.

  Looking out through the gnarled branches of a forest darkened by storm and the coming of night, he took a breath and tried to calm down enough to take stock of the situation.

  He was wounded, but none-too-badly. He had his sword and bow, but only a handful of arrows in his quiver. No rations, no flint and steel, no cloak. He hadn’t exactly had time to stock up before the goblins attacked.

  The day had started normal enough; a routine patrol found him and his squad on an oft-marched trail among the peaks of the Holdwall Mountains, hard on the eastern border of the Realm of Men. They were beginning their second day out from Kelleran’s Folly, the rugged frontier fort from which his contingent operated. The air was warming in the mid-morning sun, and spirits were high.

  Upon an outcropping of rock that was part of the staggered formation known as the Titan’s Steps, the group settled down for lunch.

  To the north lay the peak of Hammerfist, one of the smaller peaks in the range, but one that had a rugged reputation among soldiers.

  It had been there, three hundred years earlier that Bladen Van Uther, ancestor of the current king, had smashed the initial forays of the blackblood jarl, Bloodmaw. With that decisive victory, the old king had halted what many believed would have become the Second Goblin War. As it was, among the men of the king’s army, the skirmish became known as Bloodmaw’s Beating.

  Dried venison was gnashed between eager teeth, with the bracing air and long march having uncovered forgotten wrinkles in hungry stomachs. Sarge had gotten a small fire going, to boil a pot for his stinking tea, and the potter’s boy, Hyram had started discreetly sharing nips from his flask of brandy.

  Everyone knew that Sarge was on to the contraband, but he turned a blind eye. Even as spring wore on, the air was brisk on the range, and a little fire in the belly kept the men from getting miserable. Hade was glad, but still shook his head at the man’s leniency; no one would have gotten away with such things back in Galloway.

  Kottle had gotten up to make water, walking just out of sight over the next rise, while Rory the Rake started on another of his tales of debauchery he’d participated in down at Goldfinch’s Tavern. When he started in about the innkeeper’s buxom wife and virgin daughter, Hade was sure they’d finally hear the story of how Rory had gotten banned from the place. All in all it was shaping up to be a good day.

  At some point during the break, Kottle wandered back and sat among his mates. The wind changed for just a moment, and a foul smell followed him back into the makeshift camp. Hade wrinkled his nose.

  “Bloated balls of the Titan, man! What they hell you been eatin’ that you stink like that? Smells like somethin’ crawled up yer ass and died!” he jabbed.

  Kottle assumed a wounded expression, a slight frown on his acne-scarred face, “I’m hurt, Hade. You know I’d never try to offend your delicate nostrils.”

  A few of the nearby grunts chuckled; Hade was a well known brewer of farts.

  “Besides, I jest took a piss.”

  While a few of the others took shots at Kottle, Sarge stood thoughtful with his teacup forgotten. Another gust rippled his tabard and the grizzled vet dropped the metal mug with a clink.

  “Goblins,” he breathed.

  Hade was the only one who caught it, even with his middle-aged ears, and for a moment, he just locked eyes with the sergeant. The other man held his gaze for and instant and then started barking.

  “I said GOBLINS, you gaggle of crack-spacklers!” he was moving now, kicking the embers of his fire and drawing his saber. He used the flat of the curved blade to whack any inattentive soldiers as everyone snapped out of their bullshit sessions.

  Hade was on his feet, half expecting a shambling blackblood to hobble around the corner and try to eat him. He’d fought the stinking monsters before, usually in small groups that had dared to range over the Holdwalls in search of man flesh.

  This would be his first fight upon the mountains themselves, but definitely not his first battle. He took a steadying breath, blew it through his yellow beard and slowly stooped to pick up his longbow. The action sealed the last of his fear into the tight confines of his gut that he’d built for it over the years. He turned to listen to Sarge.

  “To think I’d been handed a bunch o’ green boys who ain’t learnt the smell o’ goblin by now!” he was using his indignation to keep the fear in his eyes from coming out of his mouth. It appeared to be working, as the men smartened-up and started preparing for combat.

  “Get yer shit together, and tighten up. I’m going to take a look ahead with Hade and Kottle here, and we’ll see what we’re dealing with. Don’t come runnin’ until you hear my signal,” he patted the curled ram’s horn tied to his belt.

  With a curt nod to Hade, he started over the rise with Kottle in tow. Giving a last look at his squad, ready but clearly shaken, Hade nocked an arrow and followed.

  Over the rise stood another flat rock formation - another “step” - with bits of lichen growing between the cracks in the gray stone.

  Hade was on alert, his adrenaline held in check by his experience and his need to stay focused. His eyes noted everything - a falcon on the wind, a spot of piss on Kottle’s boot, a small yellow flower protruding, against all odds, from a fissure in the step. Several minutes passed as the sun gathered a following of clouds.

  As they made their way toward the next rise, Sarge held up his hand for them to stop. No one had made a sound. He took a moment to meet each of their gazes.r />
  “This is the last of the Titan’s Steps. Over this wall it levels-out for a bit on the way to the ‘Fist. On the eastern edge there’s a grade the goes around the side of the peak. We’ve seen goblins use this to come over the range, and I suspect that’s what we’ll see this time.

  “Kottle, you’re the best sneak around,” if he was offended by the comment, the young soldier didn’t show it.

  “I need you to slither up this wall and get around the boulders to see what’s stinkin’ up the joint,” Sarge glanced at Hade as he continued.

  “I’m going to climb up behind Kottle and assess. I need you not far behind, so you can cover with your bow, should we need it.”

  He smiled, although no one was feeling particularly cheerful, “Maybe it’s a small group, and the three of us can send ‘em packin’.”

  In the silence the followed, each of the men could amend that statement with the grim results of what more than a small group would garner. If there were more than a handful of goblins, their whole squad might not be enough to halt any blackblood advance.

  Sarge jerked his head toward the wall, and Kottle started climbing. Hade couldn’t help but admire the man’s skill. Even with his sword at his side, the wiry soldier made little noise as he gained the step. He looked at his sergeant as they waited to give Kottle enough lead-time so as not to be discovered by any noise their ascent created.

  Seconds meandered away.

  Finally, Sarge started his own climb, as Hade shouldered his bow and tightened his gear about his frame. He watched in tense anticipation as Sarge worked his way up the rock face, in a decidedly noisier fashion. Soon, it was his turn.

  What should have been a routine climb frustrated the middle-aged soldier. Twice his bowstring got caught, and he wasted seconds unhooking it while cursing himself for a rookie.

  Once, a handhold came loose and tumbled some rocks loudly to the step. After holding his breath for several heartbeats, he continued on. Finally, he crested the rise and rose to a crouch behind a boulder.

  The scent of goblin was almost nauseating here, as less than a hundred meters ahead he could see two of the green-skinned aberrations arguing over the corpse of a small mountain goat.

  Just ahead and to his right he could see the sergeant hiding behind a boulder. Halfway between Hade and the goblins he could see Kottle slithering across the boulder-strewn steppe toward the beasts.

  Unlimbering his bow, Hade crouched and nocked an arrow once again. He took a deep breath and peeked over the top of his rock, this time looking all around.

  It appeared as if the goblins were alone. Down the slope to the right he could see the rubble strewn descent that Sarge had described. It trailed down and around the peak of the mountain, with maybe two hundred yards of open space that Hade could see. Beyond it, he could make out the murky forests of goblin territory shrouded in low-lying clouds.

  Drawing his focus back to the goblins, he could see that Kottle would soon have to leave his cover to attack the duo. Sarge was making his way toward Kottle’s position.

  Trying to keep a low profile, Hade drew back his bow and laid it horizontally across his boulder. He held his breath as Sarge closed in on Kottle.

  Something gave them away. Hade never knew what it was, but at one point the two goblins stopped slapping each other with strips of bloody meat and jerked their heads in the direction of his two companions. Being all the signal he needed, the bowman loosed.

  One goblin let out a horrid squeal as the shaft punched into its thigh. Cursing, Hade reached for another arrow. With bellows of rage, Sarge and Kottle charged the blackbloods, blades at the ready.

  The uninjured goblin managed to yank a crudely-made cleaver from the corpse of the goat and bring its glistening edge up to block Kottle’s overhand opener. As Sarge pumped for the wounded monster, Hade’s focus intensified as he drew back for another shot.

  He let himself fall into that tunnel vision that he’d honed over the years, but just as he’d decided to loose, Sarge was in his sights, burying that saber of his in the torso of the monster. Frowning, the archer lowered his bow.

  With a feint and then a backhand, Kottle sent the hand holding the goblin’s cleaver through the air. The thing’s yellow eyes just gaped as the soldier gutted it with the backstroke. Soon the ground was moist with black blood, and Hade let out his breath.

  Sarge and Kottle let out a few chuckles as they congratulated each other. Hade, having relaxed a little, stepped around his boulder and made his way toward the others as a cloud moved across the sun.

  The ground where Kottle had been standing erupted in a burst of sod, blood, and bits of cloth with a nauseating crunch. The boulder bounced, after it crushed the soldier. Hade could see the spattered remains of the man coating its underside as it rolled away to the east, trailed by a bouncing booted foot.

  Sarge stumbled back in shock, ashen-faced, before stumbling in the goat’s viscera and taking a seat. He blinked at the dropped broadsword of Kottle’s, crudely bent into a silver “C” on the ground.

  Hade, in a state of shock, turned his head to the right, moving almost mechanically. What he saw on the slope shook him enough to shout.

  “GIANT!” he screamed from a hoarse throat.

  Sure enough, lumbering up the rise amongst a horde of goblins, was a gray-skinned giant. It stood at least 15’ tall, walking right out of legend and up the slope.

  No one had seen a giant in living memory. Many were not sure they had existed at all, other than as rather large hobgoblins that were exaggerated in the tales of old-timers around campfires.

  The sudden death of Kottle, combined with the appearance of such a legendary creature leading the largest group of goblins seen in recent times, caused Hade’s mind to stall. For a few moments he just slumped against the boulder, his bow dangling in nerveless fingers.

  In the open, Sarge gained some semblance of awareness and scrabbled in the muck to get to his feet. He stared in horror at the oncoming tide of blackbloods, noting as he did that there were even a few swamp trolls mixed into the green wave. As the giant stooped to heft another boulder, he began to run toward Hade.

  “Hade! Move man, move!”

  That shook the archer from his state. He gripped his bow again and reflexively set another arrow as his sergeant approached. The giant was a good 200 meters down the slope, but as it eyed Sarge while hefting a new projectile, he let fly.

  The arrow clacked off of the monster’s boulder and shattered, but it was enough to make the monster flinch, and foul its toss.

  The boulder landed twenty feet behind the sergeant, and began to skip on the rock-speckled sod. Sarge barely had enough time to dive behind a large rock before the giant’s boulder smashed among the soldiers’ hiding spot.

  The racket was astounding. Hade was sitting behind his cover, while cracks snapped and shards of rock exploded around him. He was vaguely aware of the remains of the projectile soaring over his head and down the Steps.

  In the resulting silence, he could hear moaning, and in the distance, monstrous guffaws. He rolled to his hands and knees, looking for any sign of his sergeant. Slowly he crawled through the rubble, oblivious of his myriad cuts and scrapes, making his way toward the sounds of pain.

  A splash of red upon one rock stopped him short. He could see an outstretched hand and, as he resumed crawling, the sergeant’s pain-riddled face came into view. The man had been pierced by a large sheet of rock that must have broken off of the projectile. A pink froth escaped from his lip as he coughed, making eye contact with Hade.

  “I…” he seemed unable to draw a real breath, “…you…need to warn…”

  With that came a sharp cough that shot crimson across the ground. His eyes rolled up and that was that. Hade stared at him, momentarily unable to move, to think.

  Suddenly he snapped up and turned, unwilling to face the horde that no-doubt was waiting for him to appear so they could crush him with a flying rock the size of a horse. He didn’t plan on wa
iting around to catch it.

  Three long strides brought him to the edge of the step and, as shouts rose up from behind, he took a leap into space.

  He looked down and rubbed his soaked leg as the rain drenched his clothes. It still ached, but his run down the mountain had proven there was no break. He silently thanked the gods for that much luck.

  As he thought back over the day’s events, the hours after the first contact with the goblin army, for it was truly an army, were all a blur. Only snippets of memory could be brought to mind then, a frantic collage of panic and death.

  The faces of his friends flashed by, spattered with blood, distorted by pain and horror. The goblin scouts had harried them as they’d frantically descended the mountain trails, hoping to lose the bastards in the familiar wood.

  It became a laughable effort.

  The goblins behaved as if possessed, running on beyond the limits of what men knew about the blackbloods. Goblins were the smallest and weakest of the monsters beyond the mountains, and for them to keep up with fit men on unfamiliar territory was quite beyond what the soldiers had been trained for.

  It proved to be their undoing. Over the course of the day they’d been whittled down, one by one. An arrow here, a pitched stand there, and one man slipped and slid close to a thousand feet off the path. No one had been able to stop and see if he was still alive. At that point, it hadn’t mattered.

  Now, as the blanket of darkness smothered the land, Hade wondered how he’d been the only one to survive. Huddled amongst the broken bricks of a ruined tower, no doubt left over from the First Goblin War when men took the threat of invasion seriously, the grizzled soldier couldn’t help but snicker at the irony.

  He knew he was making unnecessary noise, but the idea that he was sheltering in a decommissioned watchtower tore through the layers of fatigue and spent adrenaline to tickle his cynical funny bone.