138
A blade-like wind swept across the frost-covered earth.
Tairon frowned, the airborne grains of ice scraping harshly against his cheeks.
As the shimmering haze of white settled, the vast expanse of the Armund Forest came back into view.
He gripped his reins and peered sharply through the shadow of his pulled-down hood at the path steeped in gray gloom.
At the entrance of the silent forest trail, fine frost drifted, catching the pale light.
Nothing seemed overtly out of place in the peaceful landscape, yet an uneasy instinct kept his guard high. After scanning the area with narrowed eyes, Tairon looked back over his shoulder.
Lowell, the master of the merchant alliance whose reach spanned both the East and the North, was riding steadily in formation with his men.
Tairon took in their pale, road-weary faces, then checked the two wagons bringing up the rear and the eight warriors guarding them.
Satisfied that everything was in order, he nudged his mount forward along the path once more.
Just then, dry brush rustled ahead.
Knowing instinctively that it was no trick of the wind, Tairon drew his sword. In the same breath, arrows whistled from the trees.
“Ambush!”
Tairon shouted, deflecting an arrow by a hairsbreadth as the warriors drew their steel in unison. But the assailants were already upon them. Dozens of figures burst from beneath mounds of dead leaves, hurling snares around the horses’ legs.
The startled horses reared wildly, shrieking in panic.
Clamping his thighs to the saddle to keep from being thrown, Tairon lashed out with his longsword.
With a wet tear of flesh, hot blood splattered his face. Through the blur of chaos, he caught sight of an attacker falling back, clutching a severed forearm. An animal skull was strapped across the man’s face.
‘Zram raiders?’
His expression darkening, Tairon dug his heels in to run the man down.
A spear lunged from his left. Snatching the reins to wrench his horse aside, Tairon barely spared its flank from being run through.
His warhorse, Elak, snapped the ropes entangling its legs, rose onto its haunches, and brought its massive hooves down, crushing the spearman’s skull like an overripe squash.
Seeing the carnage, the remaining raiders hesitated and fell back. Not missing the opening, Tairon wheeled his horse to look toward the rear.
The northern merchants were clinging to their saddles and drawing their weapons to resist, but men without training had little chance in an ambush.
A Zram fighter hauled one of the riders from his saddle. Recognizing the fallen man as the head of the White Silver Alliance, Tairon spurred forward and brought his blade around in a violent arc.
The steel flashed like an eagle’s wing, taking the raider’s head from his shoulders in a single stroke.
Trampling the headless, spurting body under his horse’s hooves, Tairon looked for the next threat, but the raiders had already broken off and scattered among the trees.
Seeing them vanish so swiftly, he grit his teeth and barked an order to his men.
“Do not pursue! Reform ranks and protect the wagons!”
His warriors formed a tight ring around the carriages.
The raiders showed no sign of pressing a second assault. Scanning the forest, now quiet as a graveyard, Tairon dismounted and hauled the merchant up from the snow. Luckily, Lowell did not seem badly hurt; he only groaned, swaying on his feet.
“Damn it all, what kind of bloody nightmare was that?”
“Pull yourself together and get back on your horse! We need to clear these woods at once.”
Muttering under his breath, the merchant—whose dark brown hair was rare for someone from Balto—scrambled back into his saddle.
Once sure the man could stay mounted, Tairon turned back to Elak. Just as he reached for the stirrup, a shadow lunged from behind.
He threw himself into a roll by reflex, barely slipping past the steel aimed at his ribs, but had no leverage to counter the second blow.
A heavy boot struck his stomach before he could find his feet, and Tairon hit the ground with a strangled gasp.
A man clad in animal skins, golden eyes burning beneath a skull mask, bore down on him like the wind, crescent blade raised high. Feeling the cold certainty of death, Tairon went rigid.
Then a broad spearhead burst through the raider’s chest.
“Ghk!”
Spitting blood, the golden-eyed man turned his head in shock.
Tairon’s eyes followed, widening at the sight of a pale, golden-haired man sitting tall upon a gray warhorse.
His expression was so devoid of warmth that he hardly looked human. With a single arm, he wrenched the spear upright, hoisting the impaled raider into the air and sweeping him through a massive, crushing arc.
The halberd’s axe-blade whistled through the air at terrifying speed, cleaving the midsections of three Zram raiders closing in around him. It was a display of monstrous strength, unnerving no matter how many times one witnessed it.
“What are you staring at? Form a perimeter.”
He flung the impaled corpse from his spear to the earth, giving the order in a flat, dry voice.
Only then did Tairon come to his senses and scramble to his feet. By then, the raiders had lost all stomach for a fight and were melting away in retreat.
Varkas gave a slight nod to the men behind him.
“Hunt them down.”
At his command, dozens of mounted knights tore into the trees.
The ruler of the East watched them go without an ounce of emotion, then lowered his gaze back to Tairon.
Breathing heavily, Tairon bowed in deep respect.
“I owe you my life, Your Grace.”
“You were lucky, Drakan. If we hadn’t been combing the area after reports of a warband camping in the Armund Forest, you would have ended up vulture feed.”
The reply came not from the Grand Duke, but from Daren Dru Shearkan, who rode at his side as his retainer.
Guiding his horse from the brush, Daren looked over the bodies scattered across the snowy ground.
“Still, I had no idea the Zram had become bold enough to raid this close to Kalmor.”
Clicking his tongue, Daren turned to the ruler of the East.
“Shouldn’t we launch a subjugation campaign before the deep winter sets in?”
“…The timing is bad. For now, widen the patrols and restrict travel on the main roads.”
Handing his bloodied halberd down to a squire, Varkas turned his gaze toward the frozen northern merchants. Every one of them was as pale as if they had looked upon a ghost.
He urged his mount toward them, offering a greeting with a steady dignity entirely at odds with the blood-drenched clearing.
“Welcome to Kalmor. I regret that your arrival has been met with such unpleasantness.”
“N-not at all, Your Grace! Such perils are par for the course when moving a trade caravan.”
Lowell bowed low with practiced humility. As the head of a massive merchant guild, he had recognized Varkas instantly.
His tongue slipped into smooth, oiled flattery without missing a beat.
“In any case, your martial prowess is truly breathtaking. The stories naming you the finest spear in all the realm are clearly no boast. Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I never would have believed Your Grace’s sheer majesty. That such a lean frame could unleash such terrifying might…!”
“Save the pleasantries for later. Clearing the forest takes priority.”
A flat, dispassionate voice cut through the flattery.
Without showing the slightest offense, the northerner bowed again.
“Of course! We shall follow quietly behind Your Grace.”
At a quick gesture from Lowell, the caravan hands rapidly fell back into line.
Varkas watched them with a piercing gaze before wheeling his horse around. Tairon fell in on his left, scanning the tree line for lingering threats. Fortunately, they reached the forest outskirts without further incident.
Just as Tairon let out a quiet breath of relief, Varkas, riding tall and straight, drew a bow from his saddle.
Another enemy?
Tairon’s hand dropped instinctively to his hilt.
Gazing calmly into the dense shadows, Varkas drew the bowstring. A moment later, an arrow sang through the air, followed by a startled screech and the frantic flapping of wings.
Tairon stared, baffled. A massive hound that had been trailing them so quietly it was almost invisible shot forward, returning moments later with something clamped firmly in its jaws.
“…A pheasant?”
Tairon blinked.
The hound trotted up, proudly offering the skewered bird to its master.
Dismounting, Varkas took the pheasant from the dog’s jaws, tied its legs with a leather cord, and lashed it to the back of his saddle.
Only then did Tairon notice three or four other speckled hen pheasants already tied near the mount’s rump.
Seeing his bewildered look, Daren murmured with an awkward shrug,
“The Grand Duchess likes pheasant. Less gamey, apparently. Easier on her stomach.”
END