Frangeth was a platoon lieutenant, and with sword drawn he led his twenty men through the trees under moonlight. An entire battalion had divided, spread out, and from different points north were advancing as scouting parties, ahead of the great General Graal himself. Frangeth was proud to be a part of this operation, and would happily give his life. For too long he had felt the hate of the southerners, their irrational ill-educated fear, and how their culture and art depicted his albino race as monsters, little more than insect workers worthy of nothing more than a swift execution. He had read many Falanor texts, with titles like
Northern Ethics, On Execution,
and the hate-fuelled
Black Pike Diaries
about a group of hardcore mercenaries who had travelled the aforementioned mountains, searching out “rogue albino scum” and slaughtering them without mercy.
Frangeth had been part of an elite squad under the command of the legendary Darius Deall, and they had infiltrated Falanor—a decade gone, now—to the far western city of Gollothrim. There, under cover of darkness, they had found the remains of the mercenary squad, and in particular, the authors of the
Black Pike Diaries.
Drunk, and rutting in whorehouses on the proceeds of their hateful tome, the five men had been captured, harshly beaten, and driven by ox-cart to the outskirts of Vorgeth Forest where lawlessness was a given. Here, in an abandoned barn previously scouted, old, deserted, with cracked timbers and wild rats, the
authors of the
Black Pike Diaries
had been pegged out, cut and sliced and diced, and then left for the rats whilst the albino squad watched from a balcony, eating, drinking, talking quietly. The wild rats, free from a fear of man, took their time with their feast. The authors of the
Black Pike Diaries
had died a horrible but fitting death for their crime.
Frangeth shook his head, smiling at the memories. Ten years. Ten long years! He had raised a family back in his tunnel since then: two daughters, one of them only three years old and even more pretty than her mother, her eyes a deeper red, her skin so perfectly translucent veins stood out like a river map.
Frangeth pushed the images away. No. Not now. This was a time of invasion, a time of war. And here he was, back in the province of the southerners, with their hate and unrivalled prejudice; here he was, travelling the darkest reaches of Vorgeth Forest, searching for the enemy. Any enemy. He smiled. All southern blood tasted the same.
Frangeth and the soldiers were angling south-east, at the same time as a similar battalion crossed Valantrium Moor to the east and angled south-west, the idea being they would link as a forward host to the main force of Graal’s army on the Great North Road. That way, it would be difficult for Leanoric’s battalions to circle and hit them from behind. That way, it would be a straight fight, with the blood-oil magick chilling ice from the earth, and chilling the enemy…to their very bones.
Frangeth halted, and held up his hand, which gleamed, pale and waxen in the moonlight filtering
through firs. Behind, the other nineteen members of the platoon dropped to one knee and waited his instruction. Frangeth heard several whispers of iron on leather, and his eyes narrowed. Such noise was unprofessional.
He focused. It had been a shout, of surprise, more than pain, that alerted him. He took in the scene with an experienced glance, watched the huge man, bear-like in his stance, pluck something from his neck and stare at his great paws. He spoke with…a woman, but a woman who appeared as nothing Frangeth had ever seen. She was skeletal, and quite obviously close to death. Frangeth watched the huge man un-sling a battle-axe from his back and march on the woman and a thrill coursed his veins, for the warrior’s demeanour was quite obvious, his intention to kill…
The woman’s head snapped right, and her eyes fixed on the darkness where Frangeth and his albino soldiers crouched. Impossible! They were shrouded by blood-oil magick; they were invisible! She drew a small weapon and her arm extended towards the group, she snarled something at the huge warrior as suddenly, there came an explosion of glass and through the window of the timber building accelerated a small, powerful man, to land with a grunt on the snow.
Frangeth glanced back. He blinked. They were waiting.
“Take them,” he said, and from the close nigritude of the forest streamed twenty albino warriors…
Myriam fired her Widowmaker with a
whump,
and one of the charging albino soldiers was smacked from his feet with a gurgle and wide spray of blood. Kell loosened his shoulder and lifted his axe, waiting coolly for the rush of men. Saark leapt from the window of the building, landed lightly in the snow behind the stunned figure of Styx, and lifted his rapier to deliver a killing blow—as his eyes focused on the stream of albino soldiers and Kell bellowed, “Saark, to me!” and the albino soldiers were on them, swords slamming down, flashing with moonlight. Steel rang on steel as Myriam dragged free her own sword, the Widow-maker useless at such close quarters. Kell’s axe whirred, decapitating a soldier then twisted, huge blades cleaving another’s arm from his body. Kell ducked a whistling sword, but a boot struck his chest and he staggered back. Saark leapt into battle, and as the forest clearing was filled with savage fighting, the clash of steel on steel, grunts of combat, a shout from Myriam echoed.
“Styx! Jex! To me! I need you!”
Styx rolled from the snow, and came up fighting. Jex staggered from the building with a sword-wound to his upper arm, face grim, and lifting his blade he leapt into battle. At the doorway appeared Nienna, face drawn grey in fear, her short-sword clasped in one hand, the blade edged with Jex’s blood. With a gasp, she turned and ran back to check on Kat…
Almost unconsciously, Kell, Saark, Myriam, Jex and Styx formed a fighting unit, a battle square upon which the albinos hurled themselves. Swords and Kell’s axe rose and fell, and they covered one
another’s backs, pushing forward deeper into the forest as the albinos swarmed at them, and were cut down with a savagery not just of desperation, but born from a need to live.
Eight albinos lay dead, and the rest backed away a little, then split without word, six men moving off to each side for an attack against both flanks.
“Kell, what the hell’s going on?” snarled Saark.
“Long story,” growled Kell. “I’ll tell you when we’ve killed these bastards.”
“When?”
“Listen, just don’t trust this bunch of cut-throats!”
“I already discovered that,” snarled Saark. “Styx killed Katrina.”
“What?”
In eerie silence the albinos attacked, and again the clearing was filled with steel on steel. Then a sword-blow cleaved Styx’s clavicle with a crunch, and shower of blood. Styx drew out a short knife, and rammed it into the albino’s belly, just under the edge of his black breast-plate. He pushed again, harder, and the albino slumped forward onto him. Myriam broke from the group, whirling and dancing, dazzlingly fast as she took up a second sword from a fallen soldier and leapt amongst the men, blades clashing and whirring, then in quick succession killing three albino soldiers who hit the ground in a burst. Saark killed two, and Kell waded into the remaining group with a roar that shook the forest, Ilanna slamming left, then right, a glittering figure of eight which impacted with jarring force leaving body-parts littering the clearing. Kell ducked a sword-strike, front kicked the soldier
who stumbled, falling back onto his rump. Kell’s axe glittered high, and came down as if chopping a log to cut the albino soldier straight through, from the crown of his head down to his arsehole. His body split in two, peeling away like parted sides of pork revealing brain and skull and fat and meat, and a slither of departing internal organs and bowel. A stench filled the clearing, and Kell turned, face a bloody mask, chest heaving, rage rampant in his eyes and frame. He realised the soldiers were all dead, and he lifted his axe, staring hard at Myriam. Styx sat on the floor, nursing his injured shoulder as Jex tried to stem the flow of blood. Nienna ran out from the barracks, crying, and fell into Kell despite his coating of gore.
“Styx killed Katrina!” she wailed, then looked up into her grandfather’s eyes. “Kill him, please, for me,” she turned and pointed at Styx and wailed, “Kill him! Kill him now!”
Kell nodded, pushed Nienna aside, and started forward hefting his axe. Myriam leapt between them, head high, eyes bright, and she lifted a hand. “Wait. To kill him, you must go through me. And if you do that, you’ll never find the antidote.”
“A chance I’m willing to take,” growled Kell. “Move, or I’ll cut you in half.”
“Nienna has also been poisoned.”
Kell stopped, then, and his head lowered. When he lifted his face, his eyes were dark pools of evil in a face so contorted with rage it was inhuman; a writhing demon. Myriam took a step back.
Kell turned to Nienna. “Did he stick a needle in you?”
Nienna nodded, pointing at Jex. “That’s why I was able to hit him. With my sword. He was too busy playing with his little brass dagger…his needle? What have they done to me?”
“They’ve poisoned us,” snarled Kell.
“But there’s an antidote?” said Saark.
“Yes. To the north. If I take this whore to the Black Pike Mountains. She wishes,” he gave a nasty grin, “to explore the vachine technology. She wishes to live.”
Saark stood alongside Kell, and Nienna. “We should kill them now. We will find this antidote.”
“You do not have time,” said Myriam, voice soft. “It takes between two and three weeks for the poison to kill. It would be more than that to sail across the Great Salarl.” She transferred her gaze to Nienna, and gave a narrow, cruel smile. Without looking at Kell, she said, “I understand your willingness to condemn yourself, old man. But what of this sweet child? So young, pretty, and with so much to look forward to. So much to
live
for.”
“We need to warn Leanoric,” said Saark, hand on Kell’s arm.
Kell felt himself fold, internally; but outside he kept his iron glare, and turned to Nienna. “Do you understand what is happening?”
Nienna nodded, and wiped away her tears. “I understand there are many evil people in the world,” she said, voice little more than a whisper. “But we must warn King Leanoric that the enemy approach. Or thousands more will die!”
Kell nodded, glancing at Myriam. “You hear that,
bitch? I will take you to the mountains. But first, we ride south.”
“You would gamble with your life? And that of the girl?” Myriam looked aghast, and she shook her head, staring down at Styx and Jex. Styx had his shoulder bound tight, and stood, flexing the limb.
Kell scowled at him. “Know this, Blacklipper. When we are done, I will come looking for you.”
“I will be waiting,” said Styx.
Ilanna beat a tattoo of warning in Kell’s mind, and he gazed off between the trees. “I think there are more,” he said, voice low. “We need to get the horses. We need to ride south now.”
Saark and Jex went for the mounts, as snow tumbled from bleak dark skies above the edges of Vorgeth Forest. Within a few minutes they had mounted, Nienna behind Saark, and as the forest whispered with ancient leaves and branches and needles, so more platoons of albino soldiers, drawn by distant sounds of battle, emerged warily from the foliage. There were two platoons—forty soldiers, and their cautious advance turned swiftly into a run with weapons drawn as they spotted fallen comrades…
“Ride!” shouted Saark, and his horse reared. Myriam led the way, thundering out of the clearing down a narrow dark path, her sword in her fist, head lowered over her mount. The rest of the group followed, with Jex bringing up the rear firing bolts from his Widowmaker with metallic winding
thumps,
and smashing several soldiers from their feet.
Then they were gone, lost to the sinister forest.
King Leanoric calmed his horse, a magnificent eighteen-hand stallion, and peered off through the gloom. A curious mist had risen, giving the moorland plateau a curious, cut-off feeling, a sidestep from reality, a different level of existence.
He had left his personal guard behind, a mile hence, aware that the Graverobber would never agree to meet him with soldiers present. The Graverobber was a fickle creature at the best of times, but add in a heady mix of weapons, armour and soldierly sarcasm…well, claws were ejected and the Graverobber would begin to kill without question.
Leanoric walked over springy heather, and stopped by the towering circle of stones.
Le’annath Moorkelth,
they were called in the Old Tongue. Or simply the Passing Place in every contemporary Falanor lexicon. Whatever the origins of the stones, it was said they were over ten thousand years old, and evidence of an earlier race wiped from existence by an angry god. Leanoric peered into the space between the stones, where the Graverobber dwelled, and again felt that curious sensation of light-headedness, as if colours were twisting into something…else. Leanoric rubbed his beard, then stepped into the circle and heard a hiss, a growl, and the patter of fast footfalls on heather…
The Graverobber leapt at him, and Leanoric forced his eyes to remain open, forced himself to stare at the twisted, corrugated body of the deformed creature, once human but deviated by toxins, poisons, its skin a shiny, ceramic black, tinkling as it moved, tinkling as if it might shatter. It, or he, was thin-limbed, his
head perfectly round and bald with narrow-slitted eyes and a face not a thousand miles from that of a feline. He had whiskers, and sharp black teeth, and a small red tongue, and as he leapt for Leanoric with claws extending and powerful, corded muscles bunched for the kill, so Leanoric spoke his name, and in doing so, tamed the savage beast-
“Jageraw!”
The Graverobber hit the ground lightly, and turned, spinning around on himself on all fours before rearing into an upright walking position. Leanoric heard the crinkle of ceramic spine, and pretended he hadn’t.
“What want you here, human?”
“I have questions.”
“What makes you think I answer?”