HE WHO FIGHTS Page 8

  The quarry lay before him, hacked into the side of a mountain as if by the Gods themselves. He flopped down onto his stomach, and lay there panting, blinking the sweat away from his eyes, as his heart raged inside, and gazed down on a sea of pine trees that covered the base of the quarry miles long. The mining areas were to the east. Little wooden sheds dotted here and there, with chutes and flutes zigzagging between them all and a route out that the hue and cry couldn't follow. All he had to do was climb down somehow.

  "You're not going to die on us, are you son?"

  Rane spun around at the voice, nearly falling over the edge as he did so.

  Jahn stood beside some rocks, left eye all but swollen shut, but still with plenty of fight left in him. His pistol pointed straight at Rane's head. He had ten men with him, a mixture of swords and knives in their hands. All looking damn happy to use them.

  Jahn smiled, as if he was meeting Rane like any other day. "An old man like me isn't up for all this running around in the dark. That's best left to the young 'uns. Me — I like to use my brain a bit more. So when I came to after you'd kindly kicked me in the face, I thought if I was a desperate man on the run, what would I do?" He wagged a finger at Rane. "Especially after tricking the hue and cry once already."

  Rane glanced back down the hill the way he'd come. He'd not make two yards before the men would be on him. Same if he tried making a break for the woods. Fighting didn't seem much of an option either. He could take the others in a sword fight but Jahn's pistol changed things. He had no idea if a head shot would kill him but Rane had no desire to find out, and besides, getting hit by a bullet could put him down long enough for them to take his sword away. The voice scoffed at his caution, told him he was fast enough, strong enough for it not to matter. The voice wanted blood.

  Jahn sniffed the air with satisfaction. "So I headed up here with some of the boys and thought I'd wait to see if you turned up. It was a bit of a walk but I got a chance to sit and rest my legs once we got here." He glanced over at his men, most of them people Rane was on nodding terms with back in Eshtery, as if he wanted confirmation about how clever he was. He got a load of grins back buffing up his ego. "And here you are."

  "Here I am," agreed Rane. His breathing was almost back to normal. He held up his hands in surrender. "Mind if get to my feet and have a sip of water?"

  "Sure, go for it Mr Rane," said Jahn, his gun rock steady in his hand. "We've waited long enough for you. Another minute or two won't matter."

  Rane stood up and drank, soothing his dry throat. The men's eyes never left him, swords and blades wavering as they watched him. For all Jahn's confidence, the men with him looked petrified. The Gods only knew what they'd been told about Rane. It was amazing how he could turn from neighbour to monster so quickly in their eyes. So easily. Then again, he’d made the change pretty quick himself — from husband to killer, from farmer to murderer.

  There was no denying though they wanted him dead. He took a second slug of water. There was only five yards between them. Close enough to kill them all. If he could take Jahn first before he got a shot off, then the others would fall easily enough. The sword would make him fast enough. Memories flashed by, from the war, of others foolish enough to stand before him. He'd run before he had the sword — but not after. Kibon made him invincible.

  "Surprised you're all so keen to track me down," said Rane, buying time. "Didn't take you as a reward chaser, Jahn."

  The old man arched his back and cracked his neck to one side. "I'm not, but you killed a boy and I can't let that go, reward or not — and even if I like you, which I do."

  "Miller'son came to my house with five killers, sheriff. I don't regret what happened to him because he made that choice. If he hadn't, both he and my wife would most probably still be alive."

  At least Jahn had the decency to look away for a moment. "Kara was a good woman. She's a real loss to the world, but the rights and wrongs and the who did what's are not for me to decide. My job's just to bring you back to stand trial. No more, no less. Now, you ready? We've got a long walk back down that hill and I'd rather get back to town sooner rather than later."

  Rane nodded. "I am."

  "I want you to put your weapons on the ground, starting with your sword. Do it real slow and maybe I won't shoot you. Try anything else and you'll find out how much a bullet hurts."

  "I've been shot before," said Rane.

  "In that case, you shouldn't be in a hurry to experience it again."

  "What's going to happen to me when we get back?"

  Jahn shrugged. "We're going to take you back to town and lock you up. The Queen's Justice will be here in a couple of days and they can sort out this mess. You killed people tonight, rightly or wrongly, but I can't pretend you're not a Legionnaire anymore. So I expect they'll be taking you to answer for that first."

  "Not sure I like the sound of that," replied Rane.

  "Don't see how you got much choice, son. You've got nowhere to run unless you want to die right now."

  Jahn was right. Rane reached over his shoulder for his sword.

  "Go slowly now," warned Jahn, straightening his arm with the pistol.

  Rane smiled. "I'm just doing as you asked." His hand wrapped around the hilt. Immediately his tiredness disappeared with a jolt of energy. The world crystallised into certain clarity as he lifted the sword and scabbard off his back.

  He could hear the dogs barking as they ran up the hill towards them and he knew that it wasn't just Jahn and his men that he'd have to deal with if he was to escape. He gripped Kibon with both hands, only too aware that there was a part of him excited at the prospect of shedding blood. "You're a good man, Jahn. I wish there was another way."

  Something in his eyes must’ve warned Jahn. The sheriff raised his pistol but he wasn't quick enough to stop Rane from jumping off the edge of the cliff.

  6

  Rane dropped, gripping the sword, watching the pine trees race towards him, praying Kibon would protect him. Time slowed long enough for him to see the madness in what he’d done, doubt the power of his sword’s magic and then he hit the trees.

  He twisted and turned, tucked his head in his arms as he smashed into the pines hard and too damn fast, bouncing from one branch to another. Pine needles whipped him, cutting him up from head to toe. Branches battered him every which way. Every blow knocked more air from his lungs and the sense from his brain.

  He hooked one arm over a branch to try and stop his fall but he only managed to wrench his arm out of its socket. He didn't even have the time to scream as he tumbled on. Two of his ribs went next as he slammed into another branch. Somewhere the sword was knocked from his hand but he barely registered it as his jaw crashed into a branch, and the bone broke with it. Breaking through

  each canopy of pine needles was like hitting a stone wall. Something slashed across his face, splitting his forehead from one side to another. Blood splattered his skin as pain piled on top of pain.

  And when he thought he'd never stop falling, Rane dropped through the last canopy of leaves and hit the ground.

  By the Gods, he hurt. He tried to wipe the blood from his eyes but he couldn't move his arm. His broken ribs complained as he rolled over and tried to get to his feet. He found enough breath to scream out, not caring if anyone heard him.

  He sucked in air, trying to suppress the agony that racked his body. At least the pain told him he was alive. Hopefully Jahn would think Rane had killed himself. Let them think he was dead and leave him well enough alone. One thing was for sure, if they came for him now, he might as well have died in the fall. There was no way he could defend himself.

  Back on his feet, he staggered to a tree and slammed his shoulder into it, knocking it back into the socket. He nearly screamed again but managed this time to keep it under control. He moved it around carefully; aware of the bones grating and thanked the Gods it wasn't his sword arm.

  His sword. Panic hit him hard in the gut. The memory of it flying from his
hand came back to him. Where was Kibon? Was that why the pain was out of control? Had the sword's magic deserted him?

  His head whipped from side to side as he searched for it, breathing in ragged gulps, heart racing, pulling bushes and scrub aside. He scrambled in the dirt like a mad man. A dying man. He couldn't loose it, not after everything. Not now. Where was it?

  His head spun as a stab of pain took him in the gut, and he fell to his knees. Vomited what little was in him. An old wound reopened somewhere. He could feel the blood seeping out. He blinked more from his eyes as he crawled through the pine needles, groping for his weapon.

  He wrapped his arms around a tree and hauled himself back onto his feet, and only just stopped himself from pitching over again.

  Rane screamed as a past injury stabbed him in the centre of his spine. He pushed himself off from the tree. Reeling like a Friday night drunk, he fumbled along in the dark searching for Kibon. Where was his sword?

  He gripped his thigh as he leg went from under him. A six-inch cut opened up above his knee. A wound from some long forgotten battlefield. He'd laughed at the time, drunk on Kibon’s power and the invincibility it gave.

  What he’d give for that feeling now. Instead, he crawled on his hands and knees, feeling his way. Desperate. Dying.

  The pain lost all meaning as blood ran down his chest, his arms, his legs, over his hands. How much could one man lose before... he shook the thought from his head. He just needed his sword. He wasn't going to die today. Couldn't give up yet.

  He crawled another yard, prayed that he was close. Prayed to Heras to spare him one last time, spare him until he'd gotten his revenge. Kara demanded it. Their baby deserved it.

  He sucked in air as best he could, trying to force his lungs to work as he thrust his arm out one more time. Tiredness swept over him, pressing him into the ground but he forced his eyes open and dragged himself forward one last time.

  Rane dug his fingers into the earth, and pulled himself forward again. Just enough strength left in him for that but no more. He closed his eyes, too exhausted to fight any longer. Almost too dead to notice the little buzz twitching inside. Almost but not quite. It pushed and prodded at the darkness.

  Kibon.

  It called him. He pushed himself up, crawled another yard.

  The sword was near. It had to be. He was close enough to feel its magic. Hear its voice. Feel it healing him.

  The knowledge spurred him on. On his hands and knees, eyes open, he knew it was close. He cursed the night and the shadows, cursed the wood and the pine, cursed everything that hid the sword from him. But he grew stronger with each new inch of ground he covered. It was near. He was close.

  A glint caught his eye. A stray steak of moonlight resting on something metal, buried in a bed of pine needles. He scrambled towards it, saw his sword.

  The moment Rane closed his hand over Kibon's hilt, its power hit him in a rush. He cried out again, with a pleasure that was as extreme as the pain that he'd just endured.

  Hugging it, he immediately felt better, the edge of his pain softened. His wounds closed before his eyes, skin stitching back together. His breathing returned to normal and he could feel his bones knitting, tendons and muscles repairing themselves. Even his bruises disappeared. Minute by minute, cut by cut, he grew stronger until it was as if he'd never jumped.

  Lying back against a tree, he checked his sword. Had to make sure it wasn't damaged in the fall. He examined every inch of the steel, slowly, carefully, as he withdrew it from its scabbard. His reflection stared back at him, bloody and filthy but otherwise unmarked. He thanked the Gods for Kibon — how many times had it saved his life now?

  With his sword naked in his hand, the urge to go back and find Jahn and the others was overwhelming. What had he done to be hunted like that? After that scum had come to his house. They deserved to die. Bastards. He staggered to his feet, feeling stronger, full of fury. They'd killed his wife, murdered his unborn child and then had the nerve to hunt him down. He'd show them the monster they'd unleashed. He'd drink their fucking blood.

  No. He had to calm down. Think things through. Calm the madness down. Going back and killing them wasn't going to solve anything. Wasn't going to bring Kara and the baby back or help her brother. The plan. He had to stick to the plan. Revenge could come later and would be all the sweeter for it.

  He placed the sword back in its sheath, and slung it over his shoulder once more. He washed the aftertaste of death away with a mouthful from his water skin. He'd head to Candra. Find Marcus. Make sure he was safe. And then Rane could go after everyone who'd caused this whole sorry mess in the first place.

  Candra was north — that he knew — so he started to walk. Anything from five to ten days north but best not to think of that. Nor his lack of food. Worrying about that wouldn't change anything. He still had his pistols and his sword. Everything else could be found.

  It took two hours of hard walking to reach the edge of the quarry. The sun was a good way up in the sky but the warmth of the day couldn't get past the chill he felt in his heart.

  Rane kept away from the main paths as much as possible, but whenever he heard horses he dropped down into the undergrowth until he was sure they’d passed by. It made for slow going, but only foolish men and the dead knew no caution.

  When the sun fell once more, Rane found a hollow with thick bushes all around where he could settle down for the night. He cut a small hole in the side of the largest bush, just big enough so he could crawl inside and lie down. He brushed fallen leaves over himself for an extra layer of insulation, and satisfied it would be all but impossible for anyone to see him, he went to sleep.

  His dreams were full of friends long dead, as one battle merged with another, full of blood, dirt, chaos. He saw the Rastaks charging, their swords and clubs eager to take lives, and he alone stood in their way. The Jotnar roared in their ranks, slavering for blood. He wanted to run and hide but the sword told him to stand his ground and fight. Kara screamed at him for being a fool, cursing him for leaving her as she tried to run from the enemy's path. A baby cried in her arms. He rushed to save her but the Rastaks were quicker and she disappeared under their ironclad feet. The Jotnar turned on Rane and he hacked and slashed, chopped and cut, but nothing slowed them down. The bodies piled high around him but still they came, endless, untiring. He kept on fighting, the sword demanding everything of him, ordering him not to stop while the Rastaks and their otherworld allies still lived. But with each death, the joy of battle filled him with ecstasy. He laughed with pleasure as body after body fell before Kibon, until a field of corpses lay beneath his feet.

  But there were no demons among the fallen. Instead there was Kara lying among men and women and children and babies. All human, all dead. Blood covered Rane from head to foot but his sword remained spotless, shining bright. And he was screaming.

  Rane woke up not knowing where he was, petrified at the vividness of his dream. The bushes smothered him and he crawled out frantically, relieved that he wasn't on that battlefield, he wasn't that man. Yet.

  But what was he? He’d lost everything he had ever wished for in a single day. Lost his love. Lost his future. Lost his hope.

  Kara's death hit him harder than any army, hurt more than any weapon. He wanted the world to end. How could Kara be dead and he still alive? Had he caused her to die? He remembered the excitement he'd felt when the bounty hunters had turned up, how much he'd wanted to fight them — to kill them. Perhaps if he'd handled things differently... had he goaded them into attacking?

  By the Gods, what was he becoming? He'd tried hiding in Eshtery from the monster within him, but fate had other ideas for him.

  No. Kara's death wasn't his fault. The guilt lay with the bounty hunters and who ever had sent them. First he'd go to Candra, then Marcus. Then he'd find revenge and unleash the monster on them all.

  7

  Candra sprawled from the sea all the way along the River Tryste on both sides of its banks. From h
is viewpoint perched on top of a hill, Rane could see the miles and miles of buildings crammed together with Candra Castle at its heart. The Ascalonian flag fluttered above the highest tower, telling the world that Queen Ryanna, the first of her name, was in residence. He still remembered meeting her there at the end of the war, how she shone like an angel, how grateful she'd been for what the Legion had done, handing out medals, singing their praises. Now she wanted them dead. His finger caressed Kibon's hilt. Perhaps he'd call on her and let her know how he felt about her change of mind.

  Pulling his coat tight around him, Rane set off down the hill towards the city. Hopefully answers waited for him there, answers he was eager to find.

  Candra had been hit hard during the war. The city's walls had fallen the very same night the Legion had given up their souls. The Legion had emerged from the barracks humming with power to find the Rastaks swarming over the walls. It was as if they’d known what the Legion had done and they’d decided to throw everything they had in one last attempt to take the city.

  The Rastaks were too late. The Legionnaires met them. Four hundred and fifty men and women against the tens of thousands of the enemy. They fought from street to street. Killed the Rastaks and their demons one by one. Reclaimed their city yard by yard.

  The battle for Candra lasted eight days. After years of defeat and retreat, it was the Allied Nations’ first victory. The turning point in the war.

  The wounds inflicted on the city were still clearly visible, black scars running amongst the grey buildings. Rebuilding had begun although it would clearly be a long time before it had recovered fully.

  Not much was left of Temple Square from what he could see, but the ugly block of the Legion's barracks still jutted up above its surroundings. Hopefully he could find some answers there.

  Seven days had passed since Kara had died. Physically, he was as strong as he ever had been — the sword had seen to that. His stomach was full from catching easy game and he had plenty of water as well as rest. There’d been no pursuit from Eshtery. Probably Jahn had thought him dead from the fall and for that, and that alone, he was grateful.