[Book] The Black Drake
[Book] The Black Drake
WIP book series that I will add to here as I write them. Probably going to be 4-6 books all up.
Book II
Meltwater ran icy-cold across the feet of Kurik Thrice-Cut as he soaked away the weariness of the day’s march. Spring was coming into its own but even so the weather was unseasonably hot, and the huscarl would in any other year have been seated in the shade of an apple tree and feasting at his lord’s side. Instead, the damned manmer savages of the west had fallen into some collective madness and, rather than the usual scattered raids that always came at the end of winter, had descended in overwhelming force and set about exterminating every settlement that fell against them. A hastily-assembled army sent to confront them had been wiped out, and then another only a week later, and thus Kurik found himself and the other hirdmen not feasting under apple trees but ushering terrified settlers out of the Reach.
There was a growing murmur of movement as the refugees began to move again. Argoman, a petty king who had failed to hold the ancient stone fortress of Beorinhal against the invading Reachmen, nevertheless had seen fit to take command of their host and was calling for the march to resume. To think, only a month ago and with snow still fresh on the ground, they had talked of making war against this dolt and taking his lands for their own. Now, with Kurik’s own lord dead and the manmer horde following close behind them, they were following every arrogant dictum of the terrified kingling.
As he got to his feet, Kurik surveyed the rocky shallows they had raced to cross that morning.
“What is this place, anyway?” he asked no one in particular. A soldier who caught his eye shrugged and shouldered her shield as she turned away.
“It is the Rourken Ford, my lord,” hissed an old woman as she struggled past, bent almost double under the weight of belongings on her back. “A tribe of the deep elves passed this way on one of their incursions, but mighty Ysgramor gave them battle on this place and kept the people safe.”
“If only he were here now,” muttered Kurik and pulled a face at the woman’s back as she stumbled after the rest of the refugees, but quickly looked around as an alarm went up behind him.
“Lord! King Argoman! Behind us!”
Kurik saw as he turned the western horizon gripped with black at the sudden appearance of the Reachmen. Cries of despair came from their host as more of the refugees looked behind, and then shouts from Argoman’s enforcers as they tore belongings from people’s backs and urged them onward. As the army of the Black Drake spilled swiftly across the plain towards them, however, it seemed pointless to hurry; as a group they were simply too slow to escape their tormentors.
The kingling Argoman seemed to have realised this too for, with little ceremony and wild-eyed with terror, he put spurs to his horse and galloped east at the head of his hird, leaving the rest of them in a cloud of dust as he fled. Kurik growled a curse at the coward under his breath. Never trust a petty king. Every one of their inadequacies was encapsulated in their title. Now it fell to warriors to do what was necessary.
“To me, Nords!” he roared at the milling soldiers, “All those who fight beneath the cruel grin of Kyne, stand your ground and plant your spears beside me! As Ysgramor shielded the land from the deep elves in ages past, so too let us buy safety for our people with the enemy’s blood!”
His own warriors were the first to reach him, but soon more and more joined them at the water’s edge. Household guards, clan warriors, ageing veterans of conquests past: a disparate and desperate throng, but the only hope left for the once-proud settlers of the Reach. A hoary old Nord with rabbit skulls braided through his beard positioned himself close to Kurik and pointed to the west.
“The Black Drake approaches.”
Kurik squinted, and then snapped at the man, “How can your eyes be so strong? This is just the vanguard – the Drake could be anywhere!”
“It’s all the Black Drake, lord,” spoke the old Nord solemnly. He pointed at the black-painted warriors spreading towards the flanks. “See how the great wings move to enfold us, even now. And see,” here he indicated a cadre of Reachmen witch-warriors in the centre, magicka crackling between them as they began to invoke their spells, “how the fearsome head readies to breathe its fire on us. Doubtless the cruel tail is waiting to flick around and crush us from behind under the weight of its horsemen. No, we stand before the same Black Drake that devoured our armies again and again. Unbeatable.”
Kurik grunted. Unbeatable dragons. So the kalpa was ending early, was it? He gripped his sword. The time had come to make Ysgramor proud, then, for soon he and the Harbinger would be swapping stories in the halls of Sovngarde.
Meltwater ran icy-cold across the feet of Kurik Thrice-Cut as he soaked away the weariness of the day’s march. Spring was coming into its own but even so the weather was unseasonably hot, and the huscarl would in any other year have been seated in the shade of an apple tree and feasting at his lord’s side. Instead, the damned manmer savages of the west had fallen into some collective madness and, rather than the usual scattered raids that always came at the end of winter, had descended in overwhelming force and set about exterminating every settlement that fell against them. A hastily-assembled army sent to confront them had been wiped out, and then another only a week later, and thus Kurik found himself and the other hirdmen not feasting under apple trees but ushering terrified settlers out of the Reach.
There was a growing murmur of movement as the refugees began to move again. Argoman, a petty king who had failed to hold the ancient stone fortress of Beorinhal against the invading Reachmen, nevertheless had seen fit to take command of their host and was calling for the march to resume. To think, only a month ago and with snow still fresh on the ground, they had talked of making war against this dolt and taking his lands for their own. Now, with Kurik’s own lord dead and the manmer horde following close behind them, they were following every arrogant dictum of the terrified kingling.
As he got to his feet, Kurik surveyed the rocky shallows they had raced to cross that morning.
“What is this place, anyway?” he asked no one in particular. A soldier who caught his eye shrugged and shouldered her shield as she turned away.
“It is the Rourken Ford, my lord,” hissed an old woman as she struggled past, bent almost double under the weight of belongings on her back. “A tribe of the deep elves passed this way on one of their incursions, but mighty Ysgramor gave them battle on this place and kept the people safe.”
“If only he were here now,” muttered Kurik and pulled a face at the woman’s back as she stumbled after the rest of the refugees, but quickly looked around as an alarm went up behind him.
“Lord! King Argoman! Behind us!”
Kurik saw as he turned the western horizon gripped with black at the sudden appearance of the Reachmen. Cries of despair came from their host as more of the refugees looked behind, and then shouts from Argoman’s enforcers as they tore belongings from people’s backs and urged them onward. As the army of the Black Drake spilled swiftly across the plain towards them, however, it seemed pointless to hurry; as a group they were simply too slow to escape their tormentors.
The kingling Argoman seemed to have realised this too for, with little ceremony and wild-eyed with terror, he put spurs to his horse and galloped east at the head of his hird, leaving the rest of them in a cloud of dust as he fled. Kurik growled a curse at the coward under his breath. Never trust a petty king. Every one of their inadequacies was encapsulated in their title. Now it fell to warriors to do what was necessary.
“To me, Nords!” he roared at the milling soldiers, “All those who fight beneath the cruel grin of Kyne, stand your ground and plant your spears beside me! As Ysgramor shielded the land from the deep elves in ages past, so too let us buy safety for our people with the enemy’s blood!”
His own warriors were the first to reach him, but soon more and more joined them at the water’s edge. Household guards, clan warriors, ageing veterans of conquests past: a disparate and desperate throng, but the only hope left for the once-proud settlers of the Reach. A hoary old Nord with rabbit skulls braided through his beard positioned himself close to Kurik and pointed to the west.
“The Black Drake approaches.”
Kurik squinted, and then snapped at the man, “How can your eyes be so strong? This is just the vanguard – the Drake could be anywhere!”
“It’s all the Black Drake, lord,” spoke the old Nord solemnly. He pointed at the black-painted warriors spreading towards the flanks. “See how the great wings move to enfold us, even now. And see,” here he indicated a cadre of Reachmen witch-warriors in the centre, magicka crackling between them as they began to invoke their spells, “how the fearsome head readies to breathe its fire on us. Doubtless the cruel tail is waiting to flick around and crush us from behind under the weight of its horsemen. No, we stand before the same Black Drake that devoured our armies again and again. Unbeatable.”
Kurik grunted. Unbeatable dragons. So the kalpa was ending early, was it? He gripped his sword. The time had come to make Ysgramor proud, then, for soon he and the Harbinger would be swapping stories in the halls of Sovngarde.
Book III
Falkreath burned.
When the first fires were set Crispinus Attrebus had been a prince of Colovia, bedecked in mail and watching from the castle’s strong walls as the invaders poured into the city. Now, only hours later, he was on his knees in the ashen muck alongside his family, the hot embers of his home burning his naked skin. The weeping of the other captives had been muted by the threats of their captors to a sort of rasping communal breath, one that left Crispin sick to his stomach. Only the jagged blade at his throat kept him from throwing himself at the black-painted warlord that stood over them, but it was there nonetheless, and so instead he bit down on his fury and forced a certain hazy calm to talk over.
The warlord was not of a particularly imposing size, but Crispin had never seen someone carry themselves with such commanding authority, even as he himself had been raised from birth to rule. The man’s face and shoulders, visible beneath his scant armour, were thickly-daubed with black pigment, giving him the appearance of a Dremora or some other fiery beast from Oblivion. The Black Drake, that was what that madman Argoman had called him when he had burst into Crispin’s mother’s court, ranting with terror about a Reachman army come to destroy them all.
They had laughed at this Nordic weakling then, secure as they were behind high walls and Colovian skill at arms. The squabbling Nords to their west were much like those to their north or east: fine-enough warriors if you could get them to a battlefield, but too easily distracted by ale or plunder. Small wonder those highland-dwelling wretches had chased them away, the court had concurred, and Argoman was politely sent on his way. Not that he had needed any persuading. Now Crispin could see the wisdom in the man’s repellent cowardice; too late, sadly, to have followed him out the southern gate and away from all this horror.
In the two weeks that had passed since the departure of the Nordic king, contact with forts along the border had started winking out like candles, one by one. Patrols had started going missing, and a certain anxiety had taken hold in the city. Then, late one night, the Jeralls had lit up as the old Imperial fort to the south-west – now occupied by a skeleton crew of his mother’s soldiers – had erupted into flames, burning brightly in the distance. That had been a shock, since none of their commanders had expected the enemy on their rear flank, and it was only the next day that they realised the Reachmen had bottled them up inside the city. And then, without even the merest gesture towards a siege, the savages had rained terrible magicks on the walls of Falkreath and swarmed through the smouldering wreckage of her gates.
There had been one last horror in the attack, of course. Those first through the breach and onto the sharp spears of the Colovians had screamed with terror as they ran to their deaths. Confusion and distress had spread through the ranks as more and more unarmed westlanders pressed into the city, begging for mercy in the Cyrod tongue as they were cut down. Only as the killing paused, and the soldiers began to part and allow these refugees into the city, did the witchmen who had driven them on burst through the gates themselves and fall upon the disordered ranks of the city guards. Once the rout began it had carried the invaders all the way to the castle, and to Crispin’s present captivity.
His nearest captor roughly hauled him up at a curt nod from the Drake. The blade of a knife pricked his throat and he started at its sudden sting. His mother made to stand but was shoved back to her knees. He saw others dragged to their feet too; all of them scions of the noble houses of Falkreath Estate. They were pushed forward, as a small man who had been trailing in the Drake’s shadow cleared his throat and announced to the assembly:
“Nobles of Falkreath, we welcome you to the service of Durcorach, the Black Drake of Destiny and ash-blessed ruler of all Nirn. The soldiers and bondsmen of your houses are now enjoined to his great army, that they might share in the glory of submission to the Latter Image of Faolan and his terrible conquest. Your sons and daughters will ride with his warchiefs, bearing witness to his victories as they go. A great honour, but you must remember…”
Here he inclined his head towards the great brute holding Cantila Vorin, pride of her house and unmatched fighter in the training yard. The cut was so swift and deep that the spray of blood had hit her father before any of those watching had even realised what happened. A wail went up from the captive Colovians.
“...that all lives,” here he spoke louder to be heard over the clamour of despair, “are forfeit to the Black Drake, and that the safety of your children is entirely conditional on the loyalty of you and your soldiers. It would not please Xarxes to see your lineage extinguished by your own dishonour.”
And that was that. In terror, and shock, and despair, the noble houses of the late Kingdom of Falkreath swore themselves to the service of a barbarian warlord with designs upon the entirety of Nirn. Gone was the invincible aura of their warrior heritage: their pride now lay tattered in the ashes alongside the smouldering banners of their kingdom. Crispinus Attrebus, prince of Falkreath, was now a hostage of savages, a knife to his throat for the rest of his short and tragic life.
Falkreath burned.
When the first fires were set Crispinus Attrebus had been a prince of Colovia, bedecked in mail and watching from the castle’s strong walls as the invaders poured into the city. Now, only hours later, he was on his knees in the ashen muck alongside his family, the hot embers of his home burning his naked skin. The weeping of the other captives had been muted by the threats of their captors to a sort of rasping communal breath, one that left Crispin sick to his stomach. Only the jagged blade at his throat kept him from throwing himself at the black-painted warlord that stood over them, but it was there nonetheless, and so instead he bit down on his fury and forced a certain hazy calm to talk over.
The warlord was not of a particularly imposing size, but Crispin had never seen someone carry themselves with such commanding authority, even as he himself had been raised from birth to rule. The man’s face and shoulders, visible beneath his scant armour, were thickly-daubed with black pigment, giving him the appearance of a Dremora or some other fiery beast from Oblivion. The Black Drake, that was what that madman Argoman had called him when he had burst into Crispin’s mother’s court, ranting with terror about a Reachman army come to destroy them all.
They had laughed at this Nordic weakling then, secure as they were behind high walls and Colovian skill at arms. The squabbling Nords to their west were much like those to their north or east: fine-enough warriors if you could get them to a battlefield, but too easily distracted by ale or plunder. Small wonder those highland-dwelling wretches had chased them away, the court had concurred, and Argoman was politely sent on his way. Not that he had needed any persuading. Now Crispin could see the wisdom in the man’s repellent cowardice; too late, sadly, to have followed him out the southern gate and away from all this horror.
In the two weeks that had passed since the departure of the Nordic king, contact with forts along the border had started winking out like candles, one by one. Patrols had started going missing, and a certain anxiety had taken hold in the city. Then, late one night, the Jeralls had lit up as the old Imperial fort to the south-west – now occupied by a skeleton crew of his mother’s soldiers – had erupted into flames, burning brightly in the distance. That had been a shock, since none of their commanders had expected the enemy on their rear flank, and it was only the next day that they realised the Reachmen had bottled them up inside the city. And then, without even the merest gesture towards a siege, the savages had rained terrible magicks on the walls of Falkreath and swarmed through the smouldering wreckage of her gates.
There had been one last horror in the attack, of course. Those first through the breach and onto the sharp spears of the Colovians had screamed with terror as they ran to their deaths. Confusion and distress had spread through the ranks as more and more unarmed westlanders pressed into the city, begging for mercy in the Cyrod tongue as they were cut down. Only as the killing paused, and the soldiers began to part and allow these refugees into the city, did the witchmen who had driven them on burst through the gates themselves and fall upon the disordered ranks of the city guards. Once the rout began it had carried the invaders all the way to the castle, and to Crispin’s present captivity.
His nearest captor roughly hauled him up at a curt nod from the Drake. The blade of a knife pricked his throat and he started at its sudden sting. His mother made to stand but was shoved back to her knees. He saw others dragged to their feet too; all of them scions of the noble houses of Falkreath Estate. They were pushed forward, as a small man who had been trailing in the Drake’s shadow cleared his throat and announced to the assembly:
“Nobles of Falkreath, we welcome you to the service of Durcorach, the Black Drake of Destiny and ash-blessed ruler of all Nirn. The soldiers and bondsmen of your houses are now enjoined to his great army, that they might share in the glory of submission to the Latter Image of Faolan and his terrible conquest. Your sons and daughters will ride with his warchiefs, bearing witness to his victories as they go. A great honour, but you must remember…”
Here he inclined his head towards the great brute holding Cantila Vorin, pride of her house and unmatched fighter in the training yard. The cut was so swift and deep that the spray of blood had hit her father before any of those watching had even realised what happened. A wail went up from the captive Colovians.
“...that all lives,” here he spoke louder to be heard over the clamour of despair, “are forfeit to the Black Drake, and that the safety of your children is entirely conditional on the loyalty of you and your soldiers. It would not please Xarxes to see your lineage extinguished by your own dishonour.”
And that was that. In terror, and shock, and despair, the noble houses of the late Kingdom of Falkreath swore themselves to the service of a barbarian warlord with designs upon the entirety of Nirn. Gone was the invincible aura of their warrior heritage: their pride now lay tattered in the ashes alongside the smouldering banners of their kingdom. Crispinus Attrebus, prince of Falkreath, was now a hostage of savages, a knife to his throat for the rest of his short and tragic life.
Book I
Wind rustled the grass as it blew through the valley. The sky, as ever, was a mirror of the mesa’s forbidding grey walls. Squinting her eyes against the spatter of raindrops that fell on the trudging column, Meraed urged her goats onwards. She did not dare to look closely at the faces of the grim warriors who marched at their flanks, for to catch their gaze had proven a punishing mistake in the last few days. Instead, she grasped the amber icon hanging at her neck and furtively whispered a prayer to Maira.
A Nord, one of a cluster of defeated clansmen, saw her prayer and grimaced. He was a fearsome sight: strong and grizzled, with rabbit skulls braided through his unkempt beard. Meraed had seen his like often enough, as she had kept watch for raiders while tending her herd high on the mesa's top. She knew his ilk and he knew hers, and with that she felt a perverse bond against this novel threat that marched them both to places unknown.
If this feeling was reciprocated, however, it was not evident. Despite her efforts she failed to avoid the Nord’s baleful glare and soon his pace in the long column had checked beside her own. She glanced furtively in his direction and immediately averted her eyes as she perceived his stare. He looked old, a little stooped, but a warrior nonetheless. The skulls that had been braided through his greying beard gave him a wild aspect that was borne out by the hatred on his face. She chanced another look at him.
“Are you glad, woman?” Evidently he could not suppress his own fury any longer, for he venomously hissed the words at her as they stumbled onwards. “Did it hearten you savages to butcher my family like hogs as they slept off the last hours of the season?”
He paused, seemingly expecting an answer, but Meraed’s blood had run cold as his words forced her own memory to surface.
The attack had been as brutal as it was unexpected. Since the fall of the Ten Kingdoms, warfare amongst the tribes of the Reach had been a highly ritualised and somewhat performative affair: no matriarch wanted to see her people brought to ruin by some costly victory, all for the sake of a few animals and amber beads.
And so Meraed’s people were caught completely off-guard by the merciless host sweeping through their village. No champions had issued challenges and no battle-line had boasted of its feats; a line of ash-painted warriors had simply advanced out of the night, cutting down any who challenged them and moving with inexorable purpose towards the hallowhall of the matriarch.
The Nord with the skull-strewn beard gave a bitter snort, and Meraed looked up to see that he was still watching her.
"You savages really whipped us, you did," he conceded, "We stood against you, the greatest warband of the west with arms ringed in gold and amber, and you overran us like the tide itself.”
A little of the fire seemed to go from his eyes, and in the silence that followed she saw how old he really was.
“I think our time here has passed,” he muttered finally, “It ended by the lake that day.”
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, startling Meraed, and one of the ashen warriors shoved the Nord forward.
“Silence, lottach,” he growled, and with that the power of the scene seemed to shift before her eyes.
How the old Nord got the man’s dagger, Meraed never saw, but by the time she had blinked it was buried deep in stinking, blood-spewing entrails. The whites of the guard’s eyes stood wide against the black pigment around them, and though his mouth gaped he uttered no sound. She looked around, hearing no alarm but already fearing the retribution of Durcorach’s warriors.
The Nord was standing stock still, frozen at the end of his serpent-swift strike with eyes closed and bloody filth running over his hand. She saw him breath deeply, then with a sharp motion tug the knife free and turn its blade towards her. Only when the dripping point was inches away from her face did he open his eyes and meet her gaze once again.
“You’ll devour me yet, dragon,” he said simply, “but today I live a little longer.”
A shout went up behind him as Durcorach’s warriors at last saw what had happened, but the old Nord was already moving. By the time the guards had reached Meraed, all she could see was the grey-haired back scrambling over the shale as it disappeared into the hills.
Wind rustled the grass as it blew through the valley. The sky, as ever, was a mirror of the mesa’s forbidding grey walls. Squinting her eyes against the spatter of raindrops that fell on the trudging column, Meraed urged her goats onwards. She did not dare to look closely at the faces of the grim warriors who marched at their flanks, for to catch their gaze had proven a punishing mistake in the last few days. Instead, she grasped the amber icon hanging at her neck and furtively whispered a prayer to Maira.
A Nord, one of a cluster of defeated clansmen, saw her prayer and grimaced. He was a fearsome sight: strong and grizzled, with rabbit skulls braided through his unkempt beard. Meraed had seen his like often enough, as she had kept watch for raiders while tending her herd high on the mesa's top. She knew his ilk and he knew hers, and with that she felt a perverse bond against this novel threat that marched them both to places unknown.
If this feeling was reciprocated, however, it was not evident. Despite her efforts she failed to avoid the Nord’s baleful glare and soon his pace in the long column had checked beside her own. She glanced furtively in his direction and immediately averted her eyes as she perceived his stare. He looked old, a little stooped, but a warrior nonetheless. The skulls that had been braided through his greying beard gave him a wild aspect that was borne out by the hatred on his face. She chanced another look at him.
“Are you glad, woman?” Evidently he could not suppress his own fury any longer, for he venomously hissed the words at her as they stumbled onwards. “Did it hearten you savages to butcher my family like hogs as they slept off the last hours of the season?”
He paused, seemingly expecting an answer, but Meraed’s blood had run cold as his words forced her own memory to surface.
The attack had been as brutal as it was unexpected. Since the fall of the Ten Kingdoms, warfare amongst the tribes of the Reach had been a highly ritualised and somewhat performative affair: no matriarch wanted to see her people brought to ruin by some costly victory, all for the sake of a few animals and amber beads.
And so Meraed’s people were caught completely off-guard by the merciless host sweeping through their village. No champions had issued challenges and no battle-line had boasted of its feats; a line of ash-painted warriors had simply advanced out of the night, cutting down any who challenged them and moving with inexorable purpose towards the hallowhall of the matriarch.
The Nord with the skull-strewn beard gave a bitter snort, and Meraed looked up to see that he was still watching her.
"You savages really whipped us, you did," he conceded, "We stood against you, the greatest warband of the west with arms ringed in gold and amber, and you overran us like the tide itself.”
A little of the fire seemed to go from his eyes, and in the silence that followed she saw how old he really was.
“I think our time here has passed,” he muttered finally, “It ended by the lake that day.”
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, startling Meraed, and one of the ashen warriors shoved the Nord forward.
“Silence, lottach,” he growled, and with that the power of the scene seemed to shift before her eyes.
How the old Nord got the man’s dagger, Meraed never saw, but by the time she had blinked it was buried deep in stinking, blood-spewing entrails. The whites of the guard’s eyes stood wide against the black pigment around them, and though his mouth gaped he uttered no sound. She looked around, hearing no alarm but already fearing the retribution of Durcorach’s warriors.
The Nord was standing stock still, frozen at the end of his serpent-swift strike with eyes closed and bloody filth running over his hand. She saw him breath deeply, then with a sharp motion tug the knife free and turn its blade towards her. Only when the dripping point was inches away from her face did he open his eyes and meet her gaze once again.
“You’ll devour me yet, dragon,” he said simply, “but today I live a little longer.”
A shout went up behind him as Durcorach’s warriors at last saw what had happened, but the old Nord was already moving. By the time the guards had reached Meraed, all she could see was the grey-haired back scrambling over the shale as it disappeared into the hills.
Book IV
A muted crash came from the farmhouse as a burning rafter fell to the earthen floor, though it barely registered over the sound of the ebbing conflict outside. In truth the fight had barely begun. A score of Legionaries, shivering in their tattered clothing and with only one hauberk of rusted mail between them, had been left as a picket to watch for the Reachmen’s approach. But Cuireadhach’s warriors had crawled through the moonlit snow on their bellies and taken them by surprise just as the dawn broke. A sword clattered onto the stony ground and the last Legionary slid bloodily from Brithne’s spear.
Cuireadhach roared his victory at the sky and turned to clap the shoulder of the thin young man at his side. The impact jolted the sullen youth and the Reachman chieftain grinned at his discomfort.
“At least your lot gave us a fight, eh? They tell me this carrion once ruled the world.”
The young man, his once-rich clothing stained and torn, stared miserably at the steaming corpses and said nothing. With a laugh and a shake of his head, Cuireadhach turned to the Boar Woman, second-in-command of the warband.
“Get our people rested and ready. This Bethal town is only a few miles away and we still have the surprise. And whip a bit of life into the Norrach and the lowlanders, I do not like their grumbling of late. Remind them that my blood-brother Crispinus here…”
He clapped the young man on the back again with a sardonic smile.
“...wants very much to go on leading them with his head still attached.”
The Boar Woman inclined her head and moved off among the restless mix of soldiers. Some, the Reachman who had fought in the warband since before the coming of Durcorach, she exhorted with promises of food, plunder, and the warmth of burning halls. The rest, the largely Colovian force of thrall-soldiers who shivered in their unseasonable gear, she screamed at with threats of torment if their enthusiasm in battle was found wanting. She was a good lieutenant, Cuireadhach thought, and smiled to himself as she whaled on a truculent Nord with the flat of her axe.
The command from Durcorach had been simple. As a leader he was given to few words and uncomplicated strategies, though Cuireadhach had on occasion seen the soft-spoken amiability that lay beneath his ash-blackened veneer. The Black Drake’s orders were to break the fighting spirit of the southern lands, and this meant raids, burnings, massacres. These were new tactics to Reachmen – indeed, they had most experience of such things from the other side of the firebrand – but they had taken to them with vigor and Cuireadhach was peerless in their employment. So it was that Durcorach had honored him by enjoining the finest of the Colovian auxiliaries to his own warband and the Prince of Falkreath to his personal charge. These warriors were sworn to the Attrebus lad and his security ought to keep them loyal, but the grumblings and small insubordinations they had displayed of late made Cuireadhach question the fabled strength of Colovian fidelity.
It was a matter for later, he decided, after they had taken this town. Bethal Gray had become a target after the Legion, licking its wounds from the latest defeat, had retreated there and begun digging in over the winter. A victory here would break the back of any resistance in the region, but Cuireadhach’s men were badly outnumbered even with their dubious allies. Thus the need for stealth in their approach, which suited the Reachman chieftain’s sensibilities anyway. His force would bivouac here at the farmstead they had taken until nightfall, when they would complete their march on this Bethal Gray and the gods would reward or punish their audacity as they saw fit. It was a thought that made a man yearn for a good rest, and with a glance at his warriors, he retired to the quarters he had claimed in the unburnt half of the farmhouse.
Scarely had he got comfortable against the still-warm stones, however, than a cry went up from the throng outside. Cuireadhach listened, heard the sounds of a scuffle, and decided that yet another fight had broken out among the thralls. It happened, and it had proven best to let them vent their frustrations on one another before his enforcers restored order. But as he shut his eyes once again, the tenor of the shouting changed and suddenly he was up, rushing out of the farmhouse and drawing his sword as he went.
A disaster met his eyes.
Blood, debris, and crumpled bodies were everywhere. Although most of the mutineers had already been either beaten senseless or cut down by the Reachman enforcers, two dozen or so had overcome those guarding the horses and were now riding with haste towards the Legionaries in Bethal Gray. A disaster. Gone was their surprise and gone was the tenuous belief in servitude that kept the thralls supplicant. He saw the Boar Woman kneeling over a Colovian, one hand clamped around the deep gash in her thigh while the other smashed the man’s face over and over with a rock. He wheeled, face filled with fury, looking for Crispinus, the hostage who was supposed to have commanded the loyalty of these unworthy subjects.
He was there, each arm gripped firmly by his guards, staring with sad eyes at the carnage and surely knowing what was to come. His gaze flicked up to meet Cuireadhach’s just as the chieftain grabbed him by the throat and forced him down onto his knees.
“You swore an oath, little lord!” the Reachman bellowed, voice thick with rage, “You swore yourself and your men to the service of the Black Drake, on your very life! Did you not? Yet your men betray me and flee like rats towards the enemy! Cowards, all of you! We should have burned you all alive in your big stone city, not let you march at our sides in the great war of conquest!”
Crispinus opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could pass his lips Cuireadhach had rammed his sword through the young prince’s chest. That was all the signal the other Reachmen needed to fall upon the rest of the auxiliaries: those beaten into submission, those who had surrendered, those who had never mutineed in the first place. There was no use to them, no trusting them, anymore. The sound of it was horrifying, as the dying screamed and weapons butchered defenseless flesh. And when it was done the warband stood, pathetically diminished, and looked to their chieftain. He stared at them all, panting and steaming in the cold air, and seemed to make up his mind.
“Why wait?” he asked grimly, “Bethal Gray awaits us.”
A muted crash came from the farmhouse as a burning rafter fell to the earthen floor, though it barely registered over the sound of the ebbing conflict outside. In truth the fight had barely begun. A score of Legionaries, shivering in their tattered clothing and with only one hauberk of rusted mail between them, had been left as a picket to watch for the Reachmen’s approach. But Cuireadhach’s warriors had crawled through the moonlit snow on their bellies and taken them by surprise just as the dawn broke. A sword clattered onto the stony ground and the last Legionary slid bloodily from Brithne’s spear.
Cuireadhach roared his victory at the sky and turned to clap the shoulder of the thin young man at his side. The impact jolted the sullen youth and the Reachman chieftain grinned at his discomfort.
“At least your lot gave us a fight, eh? They tell me this carrion once ruled the world.”
The young man, his once-rich clothing stained and torn, stared miserably at the steaming corpses and said nothing. With a laugh and a shake of his head, Cuireadhach turned to the Boar Woman, second-in-command of the warband.
“Get our people rested and ready. This Bethal town is only a few miles away and we still have the surprise. And whip a bit of life into the Norrach and the lowlanders, I do not like their grumbling of late. Remind them that my blood-brother Crispinus here…”
He clapped the young man on the back again with a sardonic smile.
“...wants very much to go on leading them with his head still attached.”
The Boar Woman inclined her head and moved off among the restless mix of soldiers. Some, the Reachman who had fought in the warband since before the coming of Durcorach, she exhorted with promises of food, plunder, and the warmth of burning halls. The rest, the largely Colovian force of thrall-soldiers who shivered in their unseasonable gear, she screamed at with threats of torment if their enthusiasm in battle was found wanting. She was a good lieutenant, Cuireadhach thought, and smiled to himself as she whaled on a truculent Nord with the flat of her axe.
The command from Durcorach had been simple. As a leader he was given to few words and uncomplicated strategies, though Cuireadhach had on occasion seen the soft-spoken amiability that lay beneath his ash-blackened veneer. The Black Drake’s orders were to break the fighting spirit of the southern lands, and this meant raids, burnings, massacres. These were new tactics to Reachmen – indeed, they had most experience of such things from the other side of the firebrand – but they had taken to them with vigor and Cuireadhach was peerless in their employment. So it was that Durcorach had honored him by enjoining the finest of the Colovian auxiliaries to his own warband and the Prince of Falkreath to his personal charge. These warriors were sworn to the Attrebus lad and his security ought to keep them loyal, but the grumblings and small insubordinations they had displayed of late made Cuireadhach question the fabled strength of Colovian fidelity.
It was a matter for later, he decided, after they had taken this town. Bethal Gray had become a target after the Legion, licking its wounds from the latest defeat, had retreated there and begun digging in over the winter. A victory here would break the back of any resistance in the region, but Cuireadhach’s men were badly outnumbered even with their dubious allies. Thus the need for stealth in their approach, which suited the Reachman chieftain’s sensibilities anyway. His force would bivouac here at the farmstead they had taken until nightfall, when they would complete their march on this Bethal Gray and the gods would reward or punish their audacity as they saw fit. It was a thought that made a man yearn for a good rest, and with a glance at his warriors, he retired to the quarters he had claimed in the unburnt half of the farmhouse.
Scarely had he got comfortable against the still-warm stones, however, than a cry went up from the throng outside. Cuireadhach listened, heard the sounds of a scuffle, and decided that yet another fight had broken out among the thralls. It happened, and it had proven best to let them vent their frustrations on one another before his enforcers restored order. But as he shut his eyes once again, the tenor of the shouting changed and suddenly he was up, rushing out of the farmhouse and drawing his sword as he went.
A disaster met his eyes.
Blood, debris, and crumpled bodies were everywhere. Although most of the mutineers had already been either beaten senseless or cut down by the Reachman enforcers, two dozen or so had overcome those guarding the horses and were now riding with haste towards the Legionaries in Bethal Gray. A disaster. Gone was their surprise and gone was the tenuous belief in servitude that kept the thralls supplicant. He saw the Boar Woman kneeling over a Colovian, one hand clamped around the deep gash in her thigh while the other smashed the man’s face over and over with a rock. He wheeled, face filled with fury, looking for Crispinus, the hostage who was supposed to have commanded the loyalty of these unworthy subjects.
He was there, each arm gripped firmly by his guards, staring with sad eyes at the carnage and surely knowing what was to come. His gaze flicked up to meet Cuireadhach’s just as the chieftain grabbed him by the throat and forced him down onto his knees.
“You swore an oath, little lord!” the Reachman bellowed, voice thick with rage, “You swore yourself and your men to the service of the Black Drake, on your very life! Did you not? Yet your men betray me and flee like rats towards the enemy! Cowards, all of you! We should have burned you all alive in your big stone city, not let you march at our sides in the great war of conquest!”
Crispinus opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could pass his lips Cuireadhach had rammed his sword through the young prince’s chest. That was all the signal the other Reachmen needed to fall upon the rest of the auxiliaries: those beaten into submission, those who had surrendered, those who had never mutineed in the first place. There was no use to them, no trusting them, anymore. The sound of it was horrifying, as the dying screamed and weapons butchered defenseless flesh. And when it was done the warband stood, pathetically diminished, and looked to their chieftain. He stared at them all, panting and steaming in the cold air, and seemed to make up his mind.
“Why wait?” he asked grimly, “Bethal Gray awaits us.”