Wrath of the North E-Book

Isac Björnström

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Blades and Crowns Saga
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 546

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

For three hundred years, the country of Skavia has lived under the rule of the Armloth Empire, the dominant power in Aestar. Though centuries have passed, resentment still lingers in the heart of many Skavians. They clamor for freedom, for independence once more. They may soon get their wish, for unseen forces prowl in the shadow of the Armloth Empire, their motives unknown but their determination to see the mighty empire fall is without rival. War is brewing, lines are being drawn, and the world holds its breath. Meanwhile, in these troubling times, a group of bandits ply their less than honest trade out in the Skavian wilderness. They prey on all who enters their hunting grounds, unconcerned about matters of states or nationalism, and motivated purely by their lust for riches. None more so than Wulfrik, the leader of this band of misfits. A man of avarice and selfishness, with no ties to anyone but himself, he was destined for a life on the run from the law. But destiny has a funny way of ensnaring even the most unwilling of victims, and this lowly bandit will soon fi nd himself swept up in events far beyond what he has ever imagined.

Leseprobe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

1 The Wandering Wolf

2 Danger on the Horizon

3 Brigands to the Bone

4 Greed Starts it All

5 There will be Blood

6 Trouble Brews

7 Out of the Frying Pan

8 Ambitions

9 The Fire Rises

10 A Cunning Plan

11 Bad Blood

12 Joke’s on You

13 Watch your Back

14 Dark Meeting, Dark Future

15 Treachery Abounds

16 Blades in your Back

17 The Board is Set

18 And the Pieces are Moving

PREFACE

The continent of Aestar

The country of Skavia

1

THE WANDERING WOLF

The year 1467 A.L.

The Frozen Wastes most certainly lived up to their name. Wherever you looked, no matter how far you walked; a frozen hellhole in every direction. Snow as far as the eye could see, great jagged ice spikes rupturing from the ground like the fangs of titanic beasts, glaciers the size of mountains towering above the land around them. And above all else, the wind. Day after day, it ripped and tore at the landscape with a fury that could topple stone walls.

Nothing should have been able to survive such conditions. And yet, many did. Far beneath the surface, hidden in caves and tunnels, they eked out a life in this barren wasteland of ice and snow. Today, some of these inhabitants had dared venture out from the safety of their homes, trudging through layers of snow thick enough to swallow a man whole as the wind mercilessly struck them like an icy whip.

There were five of them, unmoved by the Wastes’ wrath incarnate as they walked on, unfaltering, no matter how hard the wind struck them. With every step the ground shifted, a constant reminder that a single misstep could send a man plunging into an icy grave. And yet they walked on, unbowed and unconcerned. The thick animal hides draped over them like cloaks constantly flapped as the wind sought to rip them from their shoulders. The five tightened their grips and trudged on. Nothing would stop them.

At long last they reached their goal, a triangular-shaped mountain of ice rising out of an otherwise featureless landscape. It was the result of two glaciers crashing into one another decades ago, creating a cave large enough to fit hundreds of people.

As the five drew closer, they saw the orange glow of a fire dancing in the opening, casting the shadows of those already present inside. Undeterred, they entered the cave, their massive frames instantly bathed in the soothing warmth of the fire.

Only one person was seated at the fire, hunched over the flames in thick green robes, a gnarled wooden staff planted in the ice alongside. “Finally arrived, I see,” said the stranger as the five stepped forward, shedding their long cloaks to fully bask in the warmth.

What lay beneath those cloaks would have sent lesser men running in terror. From head to toe, each wore armor forged from the skeletal remains of slain foes. Ribcages were fused together as breastplates; the bones of gigantic creatures had been hollowed out to serve as greaves; the upper jaws of reptilian beasts served as shoulder plates, while clawed paws were reinforced as gauntlets. On their heads they wore helmets made from human skulls, and they carried maces and axes forged with claws, fangs and horns.

The five would have been a terrifying sight for those unfamiliar with the Frozen Wastes, but the figure by the fire was unmoved. “Travelling across the surface is never a quick or easy,” answered the leader of the warriors, removing her helmet and exposing the harsh, scarred, weather beaten face beneath it. On her bald head were intricate tattoos. She glared at the figure by the fire with her one good eye. The other, a milky white mess, stared straight ahead.

“Let us get to the matter at hand,” said the figure, unmoved by the warrior’s glare. “You called for this meeting, Yrsa, so say what you have to say.”

“My warriors are getting impatient, as am I, warlock. You promised us Skavia, but we have yet to see our prize.” Yrsa took a single threatening step forward as her hand moved to the pommel of her sword.

The figure didn’t react to the obvious threat. “And I intend to deliver on my promise. You just need to be a little more patient.”

The calmly delivered advice fell on deaf ears and a snarl of impatience slipped past Yrsa’s lips as her blade, forged of bone, slid halfway out of its scabbard.

“We’ve been patient. For three hundred years we’ve been patient, including the past five, since you made your plan. And yet none of us has seen a single sign of progress on your part. Perhaps we turned to the wrong ally? Perhaps we’d be better off looking for someone else to help us, and should use you simply for a new set of armor? We’ve got a few young boys looking for some quality bone from which to craft their first set.”

Yrsa had closed the distance between them and now loomed above the still-seated figure, ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Go right ahead,” replied the figure, still calm. “Strike me down and continue on your own, as you have been for three hundred years. And do give my regards to whomever you manage to convince to work with you.” there was no mockery in the tone; no sense of superiority or smugness hinting at a true meaning. Nevertheless, Yrsa understood the words, the unspoken fact that there would be no one else. With great reluctance, Yrsa let the sword slide back into its scabbard and stepped back. But the look of pure murder in her eye remained.

“Wise choice,” said the figure, before rising. Even when standing upright, the warriors were still a great deal taller. “Rest assured, my work will soon bear fruit, and we will be able to proceed with the next step of the plan. Until then, I need you and your army to hold position and wait for my instructions.”

Yrsa slowly nodded her head. “Understood,” she spat.

The figure either didn’t notice or didn’t care about her obvious loathing. “Excellent. Now, if that’s all, I have other matters to take care of.”

In the blink of an eye, the fire went out, vanishing without a trace as if it had never existed.

Just like the figure.

**********

A thick mist held sway over the forests of Skavia – a damp curtain, drawn like a veil across the dark, unforgiving land. Silence reigned on this chilly evening, as if the threat of doom hung over the beasts of the forest, should they venture out of their homes. Thus, they stayed hidden.

The haunting silence was broken by the rattling of armor, the whinnying of horses and the thuds of footsteps as shapes appeared through the mist, slowly trudging along the muddy dirt road that wound through the forest. It was a small group, no larger than fifteen men, of whom only ten were armed. The guards were a motley band, with simple wooden shields and an assortment of spears and swords. Their armor was made of leather; only four wore chain mail.

The remaining five wore rich travelling clothes. Three were seated on a wagon loaded to the brim with goods, while two were on horseback. The five were simple merchants hoping to earn honest money up in the north. Their guards were local mercenaries hired as security.

Spirits had been high when they’d set off on their journey from the coastal city of Marlen, its high walls at their backs. But the mist-covered forest had soon dampened their enthusiasm. Now the travelers were silent as a bunch of corpses, casting nervous, fearful glances into the deep reaches of the woods.

Skavia had never been viewed favorably by the south. Tales reverberated across the land, of entire villages vanishing overnight, of great companies of men marching into Skavia’s forests and never coming out.

With each step, the men silently prayed to anything that might listen, to protect them and guide them safely out of this accursed forest. This region was notorious for an elusive band of criminals, said to strike as swift as the wind and then vanish like ghosts. There were tales of foul creatures lurking in the deepest hearts of the woods; of beasts that walked like men and fought like monsters. Many of the men cast hopeful glances back the way they had come, willing their leader to turn them around and forsake this foolish journey.

No such deliverance came to the superstitious mercenaries, and they marched on, unaware that they were being watched. Dark shapes, hidden by the mist and by the ancient trees, silently crept alongside the slow-moving caravan. Like ghosts, they moved through the thick undergrowth without making so much as a sound, drawing ever closer. The group saw nothing, heard nothing, but a primal instinct nagged at them, telling them they weren’t alone. Without giving voice to their fears, they huddled together in a protective formation, seeking comfort in numbers. But still, they couldn’t shake off the acute sense of unseen eyes on their backs.

The path led up a small hill, with the ever-present forest on their left, and a deep ditch on the right. Ahead of them, a large rock blocked their way, rising out of the forest like a watchpost guarding the path. They took little notice of it, until a cry of alarm from a spear-wielding mercenary alerted them to possible danger. The caravan came to a stop as every armed man rushed to the front and formed a crude shield wall. The source of their distress was quickly discovered; something was standing atop the rock. It looked like a four-legged animal, but they couldn’t make it out in the foggy darkness. Then, for a moment, the dark clouds parted and the forest below was illuminated in the pale light of a full moon. In that moment they saw it clearly. Some of the men chuckled nervously. It was only wolf. They relaxed their combat-ready stances and resumed their march.

They had barely taken a few steps before they stopped again in terror, for the wolf had risen up to stand on two legs. What devilry was this? The men froze in fear. Then, the wolf howled to the skies and all hell broke loose.

Eight men burst like a pack of beasts from the woods, descending upon the terrified caravan. The mercenaries proved easy prey, as the attackers smashed into their disorganized ranks with the force of a battering ram, scattering them all over the path. With a scream of terror, one of the merchants on horseback tried to escape, but soon fell from his saddle with an arrow in his heart. Almost immediately, another was struck down. Chaos and pandemonium reigned as the mercenaries fought valiantly, but their efforts were in vain and they were cut down one by one.

Three of them fled, abandoning their comrades to the slaughter. They hadn’t gone far before their path was blocked by the wolfman. It was standing on two human legs, and was holding a pair of axes in its hands. Their hearts were filled with overwhelming terror as they beheld this abomination. Though its head was lowered, seemingly in deference, they were certain beyond any doubt that it was smiling.

They raised their swords in a futile gesture of defiance.

“Wish you’d stayed home right now, don’t you?” the creature asked, savoring their fear. Without waiting for a response, it moved to attack. The first man didn’t even have time to scream, before his head was sent flying into the mist. The second one at least thrust his sword at the creature, only for it to dodge underneath. An axe was then lodged in his knee and he fell to the ground screaming in pain. He was swiftly silenced by the second axe, which was buried in the back of his head, splitting it wide open.

“Monster!” the last one screamed. Fear robbed him of every shred of common sense, and he charged at the creature, a feeble attempt at a war cry issuing from his lips. He didn’t last long as an axe split his face in two.

“All too easy,” the creature commented as he set about collecting his axes, the noise of battle fading away. The butchery was over, and it was time to claim the rewards.

With confident steps, the wolfman strode over to the wagon, humming a happy tune to himself. As expected, the wagons’ former owners and guardians were lying dead on the ground, while the eight brutish men who’d attacked it were busy pilfering the corpses strewn about, their lit torches illuminating the bloodstained road.

No longer hidden by the forest’s thick shadows, and having ceased screaming and roaring like demons spawned from the darkest evil, these lowly brigands were no longer such a fearsome sight. Dressed in mismatched tunics of leather and fur, with a glint here and there from attached metal plates, these men no longer struck the imposing sight that earlier had put the fear of death into their opponents. Now, they just looked like any other band of thieves and cutthroats that plagued travelers and hid in forests all over.

But there was nothing wrong with their instincts. They all turned to face the approaching creature before it could even be seen in the darkness. When the wolfman stepped into the light of their torches, the men didn’t react with fear, as the now-dead merchants had done, but with smiles and cheers. In fact, the one standing closest even strode to meet it.

“And the great trickster of the woods does it again! And it looks like we caught ourselves a fine price today, Wulfrik!” he loudly announced, clasping the wolfman’s arms.

Wulfrik threw off his wolf head like a hood, revealing a young man with hair as black as a raven’s feathers. Now standing in the bright glare of the torches, his full figure was visible, dressed in simple leather armor with a chainmail on top, the skin of a wolf around his shoulders.

Wulfrik chuckled lightly as he surveyed his little band of fellow bandits, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his light blue eyes.

“We did indeed. Anyone dead or injured?”

Wulfrik’s companion pointed a finger at a far older man. His hair and beard were as white as snow, and three vicious scars ran across his face, but he was still in possession of a powerful physique. The man was sitting on a rock bandaging his shoulder.

“Only Bjorn. Got a little sloppy and took a spear to the shoulder,” he answered nonchalantly, as if such a wound was of no concern to the group.

In return, they received a very loud, very annoyed grunt from Bjorn. “Just a scratch, lad. Hardly even felt it,” he commented, in a voice that sounded like rocks grinding against each other.

The man’s glare and gruff tone didn’t seem to concern Wulfrik.

“If you say so, old man,” he replied with a shrug, then headed towards the wagon.

“You okay there, Sven?” he called to another member of the gang. “You look a little paler than usual.”

The bandit in question was almost a head taller than Wulfrik, with broad shoulders, and muscles that looked like they could shatter stone. The image of brute strength was further strengthened by the massive greatsword strapped to the man’s back.

“I’m fine, just thinking,” Sven answered. His soft voice was in stark contrast to his muscled physique.

“Thinking – a dangerous thing indeed,” Wulfrik jested.

Clearly, Sven didn’t share his sense of humor. He refused to meet Wulfrik’s eyes, and tugged nervously at his braided hair.

A quick laugh and a slap on the back from Wulfrik defused the tension. “I’m only joking, old friend,” he said, his voice full of good humor. “There’s no need to get sulky about it.”

Sven said nothing as he followed Wulfrik towards the other members of the gang.

They had already gathered around the wagon, and one had climbed aboard and was inspecting their newly acquired loot.

“Think we got anything good this time, boss?” one of them asked eagerly.

Wulfrik grinned confidently as he leaned against the wagon. “But of course! When have I ever let you down?” He turned to the wagon and hollered, “What have we got, Torsten?”

Torsten quickly stood up and turned to face Wulfrik. His appearance was unique, to say the least. The only visible parts of his face were two forest-green eyes, constantly bloodshot for reasons none of the others wanted to know. The rest was completely covered in bandages, as was the remainder of his body beneath his clothes, judging by the bandages on his hands.

“Not much of value here, boss. We’ve got some carpets, dried meat, a few boxes of Scyllian wine, some strange-smelling spices, six bags of sugar and a bunch of other strange items I’ve never seen before.” Torsten’s voice was as dry as desert sand.

A frown clouded Wulfrik’s face as he studied the wagon. “No gold or silver?”

Torsten shrugged. “A few copper coins in the merchants’ pouches. Other than that, nothing.”

Wulfrik’s frown deepened. This didn’t add up. No one undertook such a long and perilous journey without carrying enough money to sustain themselves, for merchant trade could be a fickle business. An idea suddenly struck him as he too jumped into the wagon and strode over to the bags of sugar.

The rest of the band looked on in confusion as their leader began stomping on the bags.

“Uhm … boss, what are you doing?” one of them asked.

“Hush now, I’m trying to focus here.” As Wulfrik reached the fourth bag, his suspicions were proven true as his boot kicked something solid inside. “Jackpot!”

Wasting no time, he cut the bindings of the bag and reached inside. And as he dug into the sugar, his hands grasped around the unmistakable form of a chest. He drew it out for closer inspection, and saw it was secured with an iron lock. Figures.

“Keys?” he called out.

The rest of the band quickly got the message and rushed to once again check the bodies. It was only a moment before one returned with a key in hand. Wulfrik quickly snatched it up and inserted it into the chest. As he opened the lid, a humongous grin spread across his face. With greedy hands, he reached inside and lifted up fistfuls of the hundreds of silver coins inside.

“Gentlemen, we just scored big time,” he announced, without taking his gaze off his prize. Still grinning, his eyes glittering in the torchlight, he slowly let the silver coins fall back into the chest, one piece at a time. As the last coin fell back inside, he slammed the chest closed and locked it again, putting the key in his pocket before turning to address his gang.

“Alright, people! Let’s pack up our loot and be on our merry way!”

The nine bandits roared in agreement. Within minutes, they had pilfered the caravan of everything valuable and were ready to depart.

“Let’s be off then! We’ve got a few days of travel ahead before we reach the camp.”

Wulfrik promptly set off on foot into the deep wilderness, leaving the horses to freely wander away and the corpses to whatever hungry beast found them first.

In spite of the group’s merry mood, no words were exchanged and no songs were sung as they made their way along the hidden paths. Only the foolish drew attention to themselves in the brooding forests of Skavia, especially when far from civilization, and in the depths of the night. Superstitious nonsense buzzed like flies around a carcass

… but there was a sliver of truth to the tales. Things older and more dangerous than bandits did prowl the deepest parts of the forests. Brave indeed was the person who risked the attention of such a creature.

But there was always someone who didn’t understand that.

“Hey, you sure we’re going in the right direction?” one of the youngest bandits suddenly called.

He swiftly received nine angry glares in return.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bjorn snapped from the front, knowing Wulfrik had no interest in lecturing the rookies. “Now shut up, before you attract something less friendly than a wolf.”

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passed in silence. After several hours of navigating through the woodland, constantly vigilant in case of a surprise attack by rival bands or worse, Wulfrik called a halt.

“Alright, we’re not likely to make it any further than this tonight, so let’s make camp and continue in the morning.”

His decision was met with general approval, as the gang dumped their cargo on the ground and set about preparing a camp.

“Sure it’s wise, camping here? Shouldn’t we push on?” Bjorn questioned, his eyes flicking suspiciously between the trees and bushes around them.

“We’re all tired; best to rest while we can and continue later,” Wulfrik answered.

Bjorn still wasn’t convinced, but grudgingly relented. “I’ll take first watch,” he said, before slipping off to find a good vantage point.

Wulfrik found a good spot to sleep, one where he was surrounded by his gang. This deep in the forest, it always paid to have a few extra bodies between you and danger.

2

DANGER ON THE HORIZON

No other city in Skavia could match the history or splendor of Valhal. Situated deep within the White Fang valley, its entrance guarded by the twin castles of Bulwark and Bastion, this ancient city had long been viewed by the people of Skavia as the cradle of their civilization, and was now home to more than a quarter of a million people.

Valhal’s dark walls stretched across the valley from one mountain range to the next. Ugly, squat towers rose up from the walls at regular intervals, each one large enough to house a ballista on top with room to spare.

The two gatehouses, one to the west and one to the east, resembled miniature fortresses. They were square-shaped, with sturdy towers anchoring each corner and an open courtyard within. Each gatehouse had two iron gates, one on the outside and one leading into the city itself. If both were closed, anyone trapped in the courtyard was at the mercy of the archers above.

The city buildings were a strange mix of architecture and quality. The area just inside the gates was a merchant’s paradise, with vast, open streets packed with warehouses, inns, and shops catering to every type of buyer. The most southern districts, on the other hand, were full of tightly packed buildings, at least three stories tall, many of which had seen better days. The houses in its myriad of labyrinthine streets looked like a set of dominoes standing on end, just waiting for someone to knock them over.

In contrast, the buildings of the northern districts were pristine and neatly organized, and included several mansion-sized homes. The houses here were made from grey stone, and the colorful gardens and fountains scattered around relieved the monotone.

And yet, all of this paled in comparison to the keep itself, built directly inside the northern mountain range. In the massive front wall, carved from the mountainside, were two gargantuan statues. Standing five times taller than the city walls, these ancient memorials to Skavian heroes depicted twin warriors wearing chainmail, with wolf pelts as cloaks. On their heads were round helmets with large wings, like those of a bird of prey, spread as if about to take flight. One warrior carried a great doubled-bladed axe, held at rest in front of him, while the other carried a shield in front of his chest, and a sword raised towards the heavens.

At the feet of these titanic monuments stood the keep’s front gate. Forged out of black iron, it featured a snarling wolf’s head – a silent guardian glaring down at anyone who sought entrance. The gate was flanked on either side by four pillars, each the height of five men. They were carved out of the mountain they now supported and were decorated from top to bottom with ancient symbols, archaic letters from a language long since dead.

Far above, high up where eagles proudly soared, was a natural platform that had been shaped into a splendid balcony with space for more than a hundred people. Menacing stone gargoyles stood upon the parapets in eternal vigil, poised as if ready to leap over the edge to strike down whomever was foolhardy enough to disturb their home.

Snow-white marble that gleamed in the sunlight paved the ground all the way to the entrance – a trio of archways carved with the statues of ancient Skavian warriors.

Truly, Valhal was the shining jewel of the northern lands. In ancient times, the kings and queens of Skavia would hang their proud nation’s banner from the keep’s magnificent parapets.

Alas, those flags had not fluttered on their poles for a very long time. Instead, for the past three hundred years, the crest of the Armloth Empire – the purple, four-headed hydra – had hung above the city as a grim reminder of its fate. That of a conquered people. For its proud inhabitants, it was a black stain on Skavia’s history, one that its current governor, Alexander Guillos, had worked to dispel for many years as he struggled to maintain the fragile peace between the Skavians and his own beloved empire. Sadly, it was a struggle that more often than not led to the most difficult of situations.

“Could you please repeat that?” he asked slowly, hands clasped behind his back as he stood on the keep’s balcony and gazed down on the bustling city below him.

The man he’d addressed, standing nervously behind him with a stack of papers in hand, shuffled on his feet before answering his lord.

“Um … the Trade Guild demands more protection in their dealings within Skavia, as their caravans have been disappearing at an alarming rate. They also demand that you take a far harsher stance with the local populace, to keep these troublemakers in line.” The man looked over his papers, his words colored by nervousness in spite of his best attempts to control it. Normally, he had no reason to fear the man he was addressing. Normally, Alexander was polite and civil to all his servants, rarely showing rage. Then again, normally no one dared ignite the governor’s anger. And anger was definitely what Alexander was feeling.

“Do those greedy bastards not realize my soldiers are protectors of the people, not their personal army?” Alexander said slowly, still gazing out at the city below him, even as rage began bubbling up within him. His anger was understandable, considering the Trade Guild had been nagging him unceasingly for weeks, desperate for more protection but too miserly to spend more money on security. Alexander was coming close to strangling their representative, who fortunately for him was nowhere to be seen at the moment, preferring instead to send messengers like this poor fool to do the talking. The bastard must have realized he was pushing a few too many of Alexander’s buttons.

“They cite your duty to uphold the law as a reason to–” the aide began, but was interrupted by Alexander, who finally whirled around to face the poor man, fury all over his aged face.

“By the Spirits!” he roared. “My duty is to protect all of my subjects, not just those bloodsucking leeches! Power was given to me by the Emperor himself, and I will not have a mere civilian guild telling me what to do. Tell them they’ll get the usual protection, as always. And if they don’t like it, then they can crawl back down whatever shithole spat them out!”

The messenger could only nod his head, not feeling sufficiently motivated to push any further with the governor. Despite his slightly obese build, Alexander still had the voice and temperament to send most men running for the hills.

“Now get out of here,” he commanded. His growl, and the accompanying death stare, had the messenger scuttling away in fright. Only when the poor fool was long gone did Alexander drop his look of fury. He leaned against the parapet with a tired sigh.

“There’s no rest for the weary,” he mumbled to himself, before striding inside and making his way through the arches to his study – though he’d rather be anywhere else. Really, the damn place was the size of a ballroom, with decorative furniture to match. Whoever had designed this room in ancient times had had a taste for the flamboyant.

“What I wouldn’t give for more simple accommodation,” he grumbled out loud. Alexander appreciated comfort and luxury, but really, this was too much!

“But you know how prickly the Skavians are when you turn down their hospitality.” A young man had stepped forward with a glass of wine. Alexander chuckled quietly as he accepted the much appreciated drink.

“Considering I’m their ruler and not their guest, you’d think they’d be less offended by my taste in design,” he commented to the youth, sipping the wine. The lad, barely past his twentieth year, had hair and eyes the color of chocolate, and was dressed in formal robes of purple and yellow.

“Tell that to them, not to me,” the youth said, and the pair shared a laugh.

“Oh Robert, what would I do without you?” Alexander said, after draining every drop from his cup.

Robert stepped forward and relieved him of the vessel. “You’d probably find another poor aide you could spend your days screaming profanities at,” he answered with a completely straight face, betrayed only by the look of amusement in his eyes.

“Too true, too true,” Alexander agreed, nodding. This resulted in another burst of laughter from the two men.

“You know, it would probably be easier to just accept the Guild’s demands, they’re not going to stop until they find a loophole or anything to get your arse moving,” Robert finally pointed out, dampening the mood.

“I know that, but handing out soldiers to civilian guilds, especially those driven by personal profit, is just a recipe for disaster. The people are already pissy at us as it is, best not start giving them a reason to call us thugs for greedy penny pinchers as well,” Alexander replied, rubbing his eyebrows.

“If you say so,” Robert remarked and noted the matter down as closed. “Now, are there any other matters I should be made aware of?” Alexander inquired, calmer now. He sat down behind his desk, idly stroking the few threads of hair left on his scalp – a slowly dwindling number, to the governor’s eternal sadness.

His aide sifted through a stack of papers resting on a nearby table, before handing over a few documents.

“To begin with, several villages located within Reborg’s jurisdiction were recently attacked by a band of armed men, who the local sheriff believes to be members of the Sons of Mance,”

Alexander scowled in anger. “Sons of Mance?” He sneered at the name. “Bah, pretentious name for a bunch of outlaws.”

Ever since the conquest of this land three hundred years ago, self-styled freedom fighters had come and gone like the seasons. The Sons of Mance were just the latest would-be revolutionaries trying to oust the Empire – but they were by far the most persistent to date, somehow having survived for five years. They would have been viewed as a serious threat, had it not been for the fact that all they did was loot farms and burn villages. Rarely, if ever, troubling the Imperial garrisons, for fear of having to fight someone who could hit back. Even the people of Skavia, the very people they claimed to fight for, had come to view them as nothing more than butchers and hooligans. And yet, despite having all but turned the whole country against themselves, they still kept on with their antics, like a spoiled brat demanding attention and respect from his elders. It would have been an interesting mix of pathetic and amusing to Alexander, except that he constantly had to clean up the mess they left behind.

“So what’s the damage this time?” he asked, his voice resigned.

“The village militia fought them off, but they lost some of their harvest. Added to the bad season they’ve had, the Jarl of Reborg fears they won’t be able to pay their taxes.”

Alexander was silent for a moment as he considered the situation.

“Very well. I want exact numbers on how much grain they have left, then lower the taxes for them appropriately,”

Robert’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that, my lord? After all, we need those taxes to feed our soldiers and to meet our yearly tithes to the throne. You know what a fuss they make if their expectations aren’t met.” Robert was well used to the penny pinching ways of Imperial bureaucrats.

Alexander sighed in resignation – he was all too aware of this fact. Never mind that it was just a few villages in a backwater province; someone with authority within the Imperial administration would take issue.

“I am well aware of the responsibility placed upon me, but I’m also aware of the long-term effects here,” he began slowly, as if rehearsing his answer for when an explanation was demanded. “These people have a food shortage, and they need to eat, just as much as anyone else. If we demand too much of them, they will starve and die, and the dead make lousy subjects.” Alexander paused before continuing. “So, with that solved, was there anything else?” He signaled for another glass of wine. Work like this always made him thirsty.

Robert dutifully fetched him one. “Yes, there is one more matter needing your immediate attention,” he began as Alexander took the glass.

Robert brought out another report from the pile. “It concerns a village named Dustenhof, located in Helldal’s jurisdiction. Reports are sketchy at best, but it seems a warlock passed through there recently. He held some meetings with the townsfolk, their exact nature unknown, before departing after only a few days – at which point everything went to shit.” He paused, shifting nervously from one foot to the other before speaking again. “The village has now risen up in revolt and captured a tax-collecting caravan. A single rider managed to escape to bring us these news,”

Alexander said nothing. Nor did he make a single sound, or even twitch to hint at what was going on in his head, as he digested Robert’s words. In fact, he sat in silence for so long that the aide began to wonder if he’d been dismissed.

He was about to take a step back when Alexander finally spoke again, mostly to himself. “Warlocks. Practitioners of the arcane arts, masters of the unknown, wielders of eldritch power.” He let out a chuckle devoid of any humor. “And no matter what part of the world they call home, they always feel the need to meddle in the affairs of the state.” His eyes darkened before he rose from his seat and slowly walked around his desk to stand in front of a map of Skavia on the wall.

“No doubt the local order of sanctioned warlocks will claim this is some unsanctioned lunatic from the wilderness, rather than one of their own gone rogue,” he said.

“No doubt about it,” agreed Robert. “Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter. The warlocks rarely admit that even they are not infallible.”

Alexander let out a snort of amusement. Those damn warlocks believed themselves so wise and powerful, beyond the petty desires of man, always refusing to acknowledge that even members of their esteemed order could have less than noble intentions. Arrogant pricks, the lot of them. Alexander was of the opinion that their much vaunted power, which they hoarded like the greedy bastards they were, had gone to their heads decades ago.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “wherever this particular warlock comes from, he’ll undoubtedly cause further harm the longer he walks free, so I want our best trackers to find and kill him.” As he spoke, his eyes remained locked on the map, and in particular on the name Dustenhof. “As for these rebels, show kindness and compassion to the people when they follow your rule, show iron-hard resolve when they revolt. With the Sons of Mance making all that noise, we can’t afford to take risks. Send a message to the jarl of Helldal, bearing these orders.”

In a flash, he drew a knife from his belt and stabbed it right through Dustenhof, sealing its fate.

“Send our soldiers in, and burn Dustenhof to the ground,”

**********

After two days in the wilderness, they were almost home. Ahead of them, a massive mountain range rose up towards the heavens, stretching beyond the horizon in both directions. But that didn’t interest the band. Instead, their eyes were on the cave opening ahead of them, looking like a jagged wound in the cliff wall.

Bones, both human and animal, lay scattered around the entrance, the remains of former inhabitants of the cave, dealt with by Wulfrik and his gang long ago. They had never bothered to clean up the gruesome mess, for it served as a clear warning for folks to stay away.

Just before they entered the cave, Wulfrik turned and saluted an ancient oak tree standing like a solitary guardian next to the entrance. Hidden among its highest branches, the camouflaged sentry gave a nod before resuming his silent vigil.

Once inside, torches were lit to illuminate the passage, its walls decorated with ancient crude symbols and paintings. As they advanced deeper into the mountain, the path began to gradually slope uphill in a spiral. Eventually it flattened out again, and a few more minutes’ walking brought them to their destination.

Carved into the mountainside was a flat area overlooking the cave entrance they had entered. It was surrounded by jagged rocks, like natural fortifications, obscuring it from sight. On it was Wulfrik’s camp, a haphazard collection of wooden shacks and tents spread out across the rocky floor. A sturdier hut had been built against the mountainside, as well as a small forge.

Wulfrik always left people to guard their home, whenever they ventured out in search of loot and plunder. Currently, there were well over forty bandits in the camp.

“Bring out the mead, brothers and sisters, for the mighty champions of Skavia return in glorious triumph!” Wulfrik proclaimed, his fists raised in victory as he and his band came out of the tunnel.

Cheerful laughter greeted him as the two groups met. Those who had remained in the camp relieved the plunderers of their burdens, who in turn then scattered across the camp in search of food, drink, and warm blankets.

Wulfrik took a few moments to bask in the glory as he was congratulated for his successes yet again. Some would no doubt chastise him for such behavior, but Wulfrik would do what he always did when someone tried to spoil his enjoyment. Ignore them.

“Freja! Over here!”

Of course, there were some people Wulfrik couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried. And that shout had just alerted Wulfrik to one such person. He spotted her fiery red hair in the camp’s low light, and her petite form with curves in all the right places. But he was quick to look away again, lest the fearsome woman they belonged to took offense. The last man in the camp who had attempted to get too close was still missing. the muscled limbs and myriad of scars also told the tale of a woman that could and had left plenty of corpses in her wake.

“How did it go this time?” she asked, stopping in front of him. Her arms were folded across her chest and there was an expectant look in her steely grey eyes.

“Perfectly. We scored big this time, and once we’ve traded the goods away, we’ll be set for the next year or so.” He puffed out his chest, a massive grin splitting his face.

“Any casualties?” she asked.

He noted she hadn’t acknowledged his earlier answer. That’s no way to show respect or gratitude for my hard work and leadership.

“No. Bjorn received a few wounds, but he should be alright in a few days. I’m fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.”

The only change in Freja’s expression was a raised eyebrow. “I’m impressed. You actually managed to accomplish a raid without screwing it up.”

Wulfrik took offence. “How long are you going to hold that against me, Freja? It was one time only.” He sounded like a scolded child trying to defend his actions.

Freja’s lips quirked upward in amusement. “An excuse conjured up to defend your ego,” she said, her expression finally breaking into a grin. “Alright, I think that’s enough for now. You go and rest up, Wulfrik. I’m sure you need to after tonight.” she walked away with a smile on her face.

“Women.” Wolfrik muttered to himself, shaking his head in resignation. A quick glance at his men storing their loot away showed they had the situation under control, so Wulfrik took the chance to slip away to his private shack in the center of the camp. Stepping inside, he found everything where he’d left it – a wooden board at the far end with a map of Skavia nailed to it; an assortment of ragged and bloodied banners on the left-hand side, above a collection of chests; a fireplace in the center and his cot to the right. As always, he took the time to scrutinize every inch of the shack before stepping inside. You never knew when you might have unwanted visitors. Some might call him paranoid, but Wulfrik preferred to always be safe rather than sorry. As an outlaw, it would keep him alive longer.

Having determined there were no surprises in store, Wulfrik set about removing his gear. He hung up his prized wolf pelt on a stand designed to hold a knight’s armor – a spoil of war – then began removing his cumbersome chainmail. While he would have preferred something more durable, like a brigandine, or even a shiny cuirass, the chainmail had still been a good investment, having saved his life on several occasions. If only it wasn’t such a damn hassle to remove after each battle. Sometimes, when sleep and hunger beckoned him after hours of plundering, he’d curse the day he’d stolen the chainmail. Then he’d bless the times it had stopped sword cuts in battle. Today, he felt like cursing instead of blessing.

“What I wouldn’t give for a servant to do this kind of shit for me,” Wulfrik grumbled as he continued to struggle. Finally, he managed to remove it, hanging it with the wolf pelt. Finally he removed his twin axes and hung them up on a weapon rack.

“Out of that armor at last,” he commented as he began removing the remainder of his clothes. Then he collapsed into his cot and began snoring immediately. He was in dire need of rest – you didn’t get much in the way of sleep when out in the wilderness.

**********

The day was drawing to a close, the few remaining rays of light bathing the horizon in an orange glow. A cold wind blew from the mountain peaks to the north into the warmer lands of Skavia, gently ruffling the green cloak of the figure who stood in silent vigil.

“Report,” said the figure.

The woman hesitantly approached, careful to keep her eyes lowered in respect.

“Governor Alexander has heard about Dustenhof,” she said, in a voice as humble as her posture – something she’d learned over her years of ferrying news and messages back and forth between lords and generals of Skavia. “He has commanded the entire village be put to the sword.”

“Have you delivered these orders to the jarl of Helldal yet?”

“No. I came to you the second the message was given to me,” she shuffled her feet nervously, delaying her next words as she gathered the nerve to continue. “I really must be going soon. If I’m gone for too long, my delay will be noticed and people will start asking questions.” she dreaded the response – her words could be interpreted as insolence.

“Very well, then you should leave now. We don’t want the Imperials to know of your true loyalties.” the figure still hadn’t turned to face the messenger. Good thing too, because the messenger would have had a hard time hiding her surprise.

It had certainly been a long time since she’d been dismissed so easily. Not that she was complaining. “Of course, I’ll be on my way,” she said with a hasty bow, and went to leave.

“One moment, please.”

The words stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to face the speaker again.

“You will carry your message to the jarl, but I want you to alter some of the details.”

**********

The sun had barely begun its ascent in the heavens, with only the faintest rays of light peeking over the horizon. Despite the early hour, Freja was up and almost dressed. Only a handful of fellow bandits had also found the willpower to drag themselves out from under their warm blankets, most apparently preferring to follow their leader’s example and keep on sleeping.

Oh well, she’d learned to live with it, just like she’d learned to live away from civilization and to always have a sword at hand. Which was why the final accessory she put in place before striding out of her tent was her broadsword.

Outside, a cold gust of wind blowing through the camp lifted her ponytail. She hardly registered the chill, having long since grown used to Skavia’s weather.

“Up and about early as usual, eh, Freja?” one of the men called to her. “Well someone’s got to sort through our loot from last night, and I highly doubt our fearless leader will be doing that any time soon,” she replied, a smile on her face.

The man chuckled. “I guess that’s all too true. I won’t take up more of your time, then.”

Freja continued on her way, her smile turning into a frown. While the comment had been made in jest, her annoyance with Wulfrik was real. He was meant to be leader of this band; was supposed to make sure things went smoothly. And while he more than lived up to his responsibilities out in the field, he was less than admirable back at camp, where he could usually be found lounging around drinking, or asleep. At camp, Freja often had to step in and take command.

It irked her greatly, far more than she’d ever tell. It was Wulfrik’s duty to organize and maintain their ragtag group, not hers. But no matter how many times she brought it up with him, he brushed it off with some promise of doing better. That was not how a commander should act – even a commander of outlaws. It just made her want to punch him in the face, maybe even add a stone to the mix to see some teeth and blood flying.

Sometimes, during moments such as these, she wondered why they all continued to follow him. But as she arrived at the camp’s improvised storage area, the vast amounts of loot that met her eye reminded her of the answer. For all his faults as a leader, Wulfrik never failed in producing results in the field. Rare was the day that he returned empty- handed, and the men loved him for it. He brought them wealth and supplies, and that was more than enough for most to view him as the perfect leader.

Most, but not all.

“I’d love to see how much that lazy ass would make if I wasn’t around to organize things,” Freja muttered to herself, as she set to work cataloging it all, calculating profits and assessing the urgency to sell. Things like the carpets and wine could wait until the market price was high, but the sugar needed to go as quickly as possible.

If Wulfrik ever tried his hand at this, she thought, he’d probably just dump it all for the first offer he got.

But there was no point in complaining. She’d just get the work over and done with, so the boys could get some food in their bellies and coins in their purses.

Close to two hours later, Freja was confident she’d done her share of the work and set out to stretch her legs and find something warm to eat. Judging by the smell wafting through the camp, it seemed Chef was hard at work preparing breakfast. Good timing on his part, considering the camp was beginning to come to life, its inhabitants crawling out of their homes one by one, some with more grace and vigor than others.

She was quick to notice one person’s absence.

“Oi, Sven!” she called out, spotting the bandit’s head poking up above everyone else’s. “Have you seen Wulfrik?”

The question was met with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Sorry, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him. Then again, I woke up only a few minutes ago,” The admission earned him an exasperated shake of Freja’s head.

“I’m surrounded by lazy asses.”

Her tone of voice prompted a light chuckle from Sven. “It’s not our fault you’re all but nocturnal,” he countered. “Besides, we need our beauty sleep to stay as handsome as we are.” He struck a ridiculous pose.

Freja raised an eyebrow and smirked. “If that’s what you call ‘handsome’, you must have pretty low standards,”

Sven clutched at his chest, a look of exaggerated agony on his face. “Such cruel words; they strike me straight in the heart like the wicked blade of an assassin!”

“You’ll live, you big baby,” she punched him lightly on the shoulder, and he winced in mock pain.

“You’re such a cruel woman, Freja, to strike a defenseless man like that. How can I expect to survive such heartless abuse!” The agony in his voice was so convincing, Freja might have believed it, had it not been for the playful twinkle in his eye.

She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said, turning to leave. “Sorry to run away like this, but I have to find our fearless leader,”

Sven waved a dismissive hand. “No worries. I’ll try to nab some of Chef’s bread for you before the rest of the gang gets to it,” he called as he walked off towards the origin of the mouth-watering aroma.

“Thanks, I owe you one!” she called over her shoulder.

He’s a nice guy, that Sven. She found him kind and compassionate, in contrast to his brutish appearance – a joking gentleman in a band of bloodthirsty bandits. Though he could definitively do with some toughing up. At times he was a little too soft for this life they lived.

But these were thoughts for another time. Now she needed to find that lazy bastard Wulfrik.

This turned out to be a simple task, as he hadn’t even left his shack. When she stepped inside what she considered his overly large, overly furnished home, Wulfrik was blissfully snoring away in his cot.

“Why am I not surprised by this?” Freja muttered to herself as she massaged her eyebrows. Seriously, would it kill him to be a bit more active in the morning, especially considering the rest of his band was already awake and at work? Unsympathetically, she tipped the cot over, sending its occupant crashing to the floor, where he woke with a startled yelp. A string of colorful curses followed as Wulfrik struggled to untangle himself from his blankets. Freja smirked at the display.

Wulfrik finally freed himself and sprang to his feet. He didn’t look amused in the slightest. “Freja, is there a reason for your rude wake-up call?” he asked with narrowed eyes, facing her in all his nude glory.

“I figured it was about time you put your lazy ass in gear and got things ready,” Freja answered. She crossed her arms over her chest and let her gaze wander up and down his body.

“Get what ready, exactly?” Wulfrik asked in annoyance. He began to get dressed, his movements sluggish.

“Preparations for the trip to sell our goods, of course. What else?”

Her reply elicited a tired groan from her leader. She narrowed her eyes in frustration, knowing where this discussion was heading.

“Can’t it wait?” he whined, putting on his breeches. “Or better yet, why can’t someone else do it?”

“No, it can’t wait,” she said, unable to keep her habitual annoyance with her so-called leader out of her voice. “We have some stuff that needs to be sold now, and we need more provisions for the coming months. Besides, it’s your loot, thus it’s your responsibility as well.”

Wulfrik pulled on his tunic. “You do know that I’m the leader of this band, right?” he said, giving her a mild glare.

Freja returned it with one of her own. “Then act like it.”

A fierce staring contest ensued. As Freja expected, Wulfrik caved in first.

“Fine, I’ll do it then,” he said, throwing his arms into the air in resignation.

Freja allowed herself the ghost of a smile. “I swear, for such a greedy ass, you’re painfully lazy if you can’t get your riches right away. Sometimes I wonder why we even follow you.” Her tone was teasing, but he recognized the dig at his leadership skills.

“If you’re so dissatisfied with my leadership, there’s nothing stopping you from leaving,” he countered, strapping on his boots.

Whatever small sense of accomplishment Freja may have felt earlier quickly evaporated. Without another word, she stormed out of the tent, leaving a befuddled Wulfrik behind.

“Was it something I said?” he muttered to himself.

3

BRIGANDS TO THE BONE

Wulfrik’s band of criminals were skilled in many areas: hunting, craftsmanship, fighting, and a whole slew of occupations required to keep a small community going. However, one skill none of them possessed was singing, a fact made painfully clear as Wulfrik led thirty of his men along the road, all singing so terribly he’d have sworn it was frightening the wildlife away. He could have endured it for a day or two, perhaps, but he’d been forced to listen to the men’s singing for well over a week on this current trip.

Next to him, at the head of the column, Freja gritted her teeth, her hands straying too close to her sword for comfort.

“If they don’t stop that horrendous noise soon, I’ll castrate each and every one of them,” she snarled.

Wulfrik had no idea if she was joking. “No need to overreact, Freja. They’re merely trying to pass the time, and …”

His voice trailed off as Freja’s sharp eyes landed on him.

I am not intimidated, I am not intimidated, I am not intimidated. Wulfrik repeated the mantra in his head, even as he turned a few shades paler. He swiftly came to the conclusion that Freja was not in a cheerful mood, and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

“I … I’ll just check the wagon,” he said, sounding as nonchalant as possible as he moved away, never turning his vulnerable back on the fiery redhead. Her fierce glare followed him as he went.

The men, led by Sven, watched with silent mirth, careful not to show their amusement lest they brought Freja’s ire down upon them. Better him than us.

Finding himself at the back of the group, where one of the men, Harald, was riding in a wagon dragged by a black horse, Wulfrik made a quick check of their cargo to make sure nothing had fallen off.

“Relax, Wulfrik, none of our loot is going to disappear on my watch,” Harald commented jovially as he chewed a grass straw. He was deceptively thin, with unruly brown hair that looked like a bird had tried to nest in it.

“It’s not the loot I’m worried about, Harald,” Wulfrik grumbled quietly, throwing a quick glance at the front of the group, where Freja had finally silenced the men with another sharp glare and an even sharper comment.

Harald chuckled quietly. “My sympathies, friend,” he said, with the sincerity of a wolf telling a sheep it had become a vegetarian.

Once again, Wulfrik wondered if he should have followed Bjorn’s lead and stayed behind with the rest of his band. That would have been boring, but at least the camp was warm and comfortable. Not to mention safer.

The rest of the trip passed in silence, apart from the usual banter between the men. Finally, they arrived at their destination, the city of Helldal. Though the term ‘city’ was debatable. The blasted place had only been around a few centuries or so, and its defenses weren’t exactly imposing. Simple wooden walls, with the occasional watchtower, and a ditch dug around the whole town for protection. The city’s population seemed to be constantly in flux, back and forth like the tides of the sea. Consequently the city had expanded and contracted too many times for the architects to bother with permanent defenses.

The only reason this place was recognized as more than just a name on the map was its location. Situated close to the center of Skavia, at the junction of four roads, it served as a waypoint for people traveling through the country. In fact, that was how the settlement had begun, with some crafty bugger setting up an inn or two at the crossroads. A makeshift camp had been established, which later grew into a village, which later grew into a town, and so on. Even today, travelers from every corner of Skavia and beyond passed through Helldal at least once on their journey. This constant influx of travelers had the added bonus of making Helldal a minor hub for trade. Though far smaller than the market districts of great cities like Valhal or Marlen, Helldal had a more – for lack of a better term – liberal stance on trade. Buyers and sellers conducted their business according to a simple and unspoken law: nobody asked where their goods came from. This suited the likes of Wulfrik and his gang just fine.

But today, the usual stream of people seemed to have slowed to a trickle. And of those who were on the road, more than half walked with weapons openly on display. Wulfrik, however, didn’t spare them much thought. After all, if half the rumors circulating through Skavia were true, these were dangerous times. And in dangerous times, you were either prepared to fight, or you were dead.

As the band of merry bandits approached the wooden walls surrounding the town, they found the gates wide open with only two guards, both half asleep, keeping an eye on the small number of people passing them by. Part of the Helldal militia, they were less than terrifying. Each wore a brigandine – Wulfrik noted one of them had put his on backwards – and a barbute helmet, and carried a round shield and spear. The spears were in fact being used to keep the two guards upright, as they stood slumped over, the stench of vomit and alcohol clinging to them like a second skin. It must have been a rough night at the barracks.

And people wonder why the governor prefers to have his own force, rather than rely on local militias.

“As you were, gents,” Wulfrik said, as he and his little group strolled inside.

The guards barely reacted, beyond a faint grumble of annoyance from one and a snore from the other.