The Wild Mark

"It will land easier coming from you," he said, though he disliked the task of tending to Boso as he died. Still, he bent to tend to Boso, and to his surprise he was joined by Lilliane.

"I have seen my share of men die," she said grimly. "I would see their last moments and pass them on."

"Thank you," Boso gasped, his breath growing weaker by the moment. "I should hate to die alone."

"You will not die alone," Vesian muttered. He looked to Conrad. "Unless your cousin sees sense, you will die with all of us as well."

"Mad! Mad you are! We cannot leave him behind! He... he will make it."

"Look at him, Sir Conrad," Leoric insisted. He caught Conrad by the sleeve as he turned away and pulled him toward his dying cousin. "He is dying."

"He will be alright," Conrad shouted back. "We must give him time. Time to rest."

"We have no time!" Leoric snapped. "Listen!"

Outside the stockade, the beating of orcish war drums shook the air, growing closer with each passing moment. Thibault scrambled up one of the sentry platforms and looked out over the walls.

"They are coming," he said, his voice heavy with dread. "Thousands of them."

"If we do not leave now, we may never get out," Leoric urged.

"We cannot run," Conrad insisted weakly. "We cannot leave him. Tie him to a horse!"

"He will die," Leoric replied.

"We must make the effort!" Conrad whined.

"He will die all the same," Lilliane declared. "Whether alone in the stockade or jostling up and down on the back of a horse in agony, he will die."

"But..." Conrad stammered. "But we can fight them off..."

"Look at your men," Vesian snapped, quickly losing patience as the orcish drumbeats grew nearer. "They are beaten. We are outnumbered! We must retreat to Neupont and gather all the knights of the Mark. We cannot prevail with just the force we have here."

"My men are not beaten!" Conrad snapped, turning his grief to anger, though a simple look at his men revealed the lie. "Your men failed, not mine!"

"They are getting closer!" shouted Thibault, but Conrad did not hear him.

"If not for the cowardice of you knights of the Order," Conrad bellowed, "Boso would not be wounded, and we would have run the orcs down!"

"I grow tired of your delusions," Vesian snarled, rising to his feet. "Thibault, we are leaving."

"See?!" Conrad cried. "More cowardice in the face of the enemy! Sir Leoric, I order you to have him stripped of his lands and station and expelled from the Order!"

Leoric ignored the utterly nonsensical order that Conrad possessed no authority to give in favor and opened his mouth to speak, but Lilliane interrupted.

"Boso is dead," she said flatly, and Conrad stopped his ranting to stare open-mouthed at her.

"No, no, it cannot be..."

"He has no breath," she replied with grim certainty. "His breast does not rise, his blood does not flow. He is bound for Kanaron now."

"Dead!" Conrad screamed toward the sky. "Dead! And for what?! Peasants?! Oh, what a cursed life I lead to have given my cousin in sacrifice to the lives of pathetic wretches such as these!"

"Sir Conrad," Leoric tried again with rapidly fading patience, "we will all grieve your cousin once we are back in Neupont, but time is of the essence. We must go."

"Aha!" Conrad wailed. "Cowardice from the both of you! I--" he fumbled for his sword at his hip, "should cut you both down where you stand and--"

Vesian closed the distance to him in two long strides and knocked him to the ground with a mailed fist. Conrad sprawled into the dirt and sat up in shock.

"Sit down and shut up!" he roared. "Your delusions and vacillations have cost enough time. We are leaving now and gods willing it's not too late already!"

Conrad sat in the dirt, rubbing his reddening chin with one hand, and stared dumbly at Vesian. Vesian paid him no more mind.

"Everyone, mount up! Thibault, tie Boso's body to one of the packhorses and Lilliane, open the gate. Leoric and I will lead the column. Everyone else, try to keep up."

There was a rush to their positions and Vesian mounted Zephyr and rode him to the gate. Leoric guided his horse close to him until their knees were touching, ready to burst forth from the stockade and ride south toward Neupont with all due haste. Lilliane stood at the gate with her horse by her side and the pull rope in her hands.

"Now!" cried Vesian and she pulled with all her might. The gates flung open and he and Leoric spurred their horses into a gallop, lances already lowered to pass beneath the wall above.

Vesian almost stopped right away, for the orcs and Wildmen had formed up in a line a hundred yards ahead of them, forming a solid ring of shields around the whole of the stockade. Instead, he spurred Zephyr forward and bellowed a war cry beneath his helmet. "The Griffon and the King!" Behind him flapped the banners of both Conrad and the Order, whipping in a sudden wind that blew across the open fields.

But the orcs that stood before him were armored in polished mail and helms trimmed with gold, and they held their ground. Vesian drew nearer, and they neither ran in panic nor clustered together as the orcs had earlier. At their center stood a tall, broad orc in gilded mail beneath a standard of hide painted red and emblazoned with a black hand.

Faced with the choice of crashing headlong into the orcs or turning aside, Vesian chose the latter and pulled Zephyr to his right with a growl of desperate frustration. The column turned with him and he rode in a tight circle to try again. This time, he aimed his column at the more plainly armored orcs beside the enemy's elites. He heard the enemy warlord bellow commands at them and saw him shove his way through the ranks to be by their side. The orcs stiffened as he approached, but this time Vesian would not be deterred. Escape was no longer an option, it was the only option.

Vesian crashed into the ranks of their warriors. A spear gored Zephyr, blunted by the caparison and snapped in twain by the impact. The horse cried out in pain, but the thick padded cloth prevented the spearpoint from delivering a mortal wound. Vesian drove his own lancehead into the throat of one orc, goring him just above the warrior's mailed collar. He felt the lance strike bone and knew that he had cut his foe's spine.

The orcs now gave ground as the knights crashed into them, but their lines were thick enough that Vesian and his companions could not break through. They were not at a halt, surrounded on three sides by orcs. A distant memory sprang into his mind, of his master-at-arms back at Chateau Valeur chastising him on the riding grounds. "A horseman must never be at a halt in reach of the enemy! Keep riding, always riding!"

Vesian dug his spurs into Zephyr's flanks and the courser leapt forward. They bowled over another orc, forging a path through the bodies toward freedom on the other side.

From behind, there came a cry and Vesian turned to look back. Sir Conrad was caught. An orc had seized the reins of his destrier, and two others were wrestling him from his horse. Vesian could do little to help him, for all forward progress was needed to break through the enemy lines before they were overwhelmed.

"Forward!" he cried, and spurred Zephyr on again. With orcs crowding in all around him, his lance was fast becoming useless. He threw it aside, catching one unfortunate orc in the face with the haft, and drew his sword. A bold orc rushed at him in his moment of preoccupation, and Vesian smote him a terrible blow across the face, crumpling his helmet and splitting his ugly green face right open.

He smirked in grim satisfaction and felt the courser surge beneath him again. Only one orc remained between them and the empty fields beyond. They were so close!

"Faster!" cried Leoric at his side, "They are closing in behind us!" Vesian threw another look behind him and saw that it was true. The long column of riders was bunched up in the middle, as the knights and their retainers tried to protect the vulnerable packhorses and Lilliane between them. But their shortening of the column had allowed the orcs to close in all around them, and they were dangerously close to being totally surrounded.

Vesian gave Zephyr one final kick and bore down on the last orc blocking his path. He slashed downward from the saddle, and the orc raised his shield to block the blow. His sword thudded into the orc's shield and caught fast in its oaken rim. Vesian twisted and yanked, but the blade would not come out. With a snarl of frustration, he removed one foot from the stirrup and kicked as he pulled his sword a second time, heedless of the danger he put himself in by weakening his stance in the saddle.

To his great relief, this time the blade tore free, and Vesian leaned far forward in the saddle to stab at the orc again, this time reaching over the upraised shield. His blade struck the orc in the shoulder and he heard his foe scream in pain. The orc fell aside, and Vesian spurred Zephyr over the fallen warrior to freedom.

With a cry of elation, he broke through the orcish ranks and rode into open ground, then turned back to free his fellows. Conrad's standard bearer followed close behind him, his master unhorsed and lost somewhere in the press behind. Vesian urged the man onward with a cry of "Run, let the standard lead the others to escape!" Behind him came two more knights, then packhorses and, to Vesian's relief, Lilliane.

But Leoric remained trapped as orcs closed. They hacked at his horse and reached for the reins, but Leoric beat them back with his fearsome griffon sword. Vesian made to ride to his aid, but the horses and riders pouring past him blocked him. Valeran alone stayed beside his master, thrusting at approaching orcs with his lance as the other riders fled the encirclement to safety.

Vesian burst through the last of the packhorses to Leoric's side, cleaving down the last orc between them. Leoric looked up and smiled at him, acknowledging the aid with a nod of his helmed head. He spurred his horse forward, and they were at last freed.

But from nowhere came the enemy warlord, a long-hafted axe in his hands. He swung the axe at Leoric and caught the knight unawares. The heavy blade sheared through the point of Leoric's heater shield and struck the knight-banneret in the chest. Leoric grunted in shock, the impact nearly lifting him out of his high saddle. Vesian heard a crack and snapping of mail links and cried out in shock. Leoric teetered in the saddle and Vesian reached out to him. Leoric swung weakly at the warlord, but his horse carried him away from the battle and into Vesian's reach before the orc could swing again. Valeran and his nimble horse followed close behind them.

The warlord was not finished with them, however, and charged at Vesian as Leoric rode away. The heavy axe raised up again and fell like an executioner's tool, but Zephyr darted aside and the axe hewed only the dirt, flinging clods of earth into the air. Vesian replied with a heavy slash to the orc's shoulders, but the warlord's gilded mail turned aside his blade.

The axe came up again, startlingly fast, and Vesian leaned back in his saddle to avoid being hooked by its rear blade. The warlord snarled and set himself for another swing. His other warriors surged forward at Vesian, the last foe within their reach, and the warlord swung for Zephyr's neck. Vesian wheeled the courser around to avoid the blow and chopped down again at the warlord's neck, exposed as it was by the overhead swing. Yet again, the blade only struck mail, sparking off the gilded rings.

His companions were safe, except for Sir Conrad and a few others beyond his aid, and Vesian turned Zephyr around again and spurred the courser into the open fields. He rode south as fast as he could, gaining ground on the others quickly. Arrows and javelins fell all around him, some struck him or Zephyr in the back, but all were defeated by mail and thick, padded cloth.

Leoric was straggling behind the others, hunched over in the saddle and looking much the worse for wear. Vesian pulled up beside him and gave the knight-banneret something to lean on.

"Keep riding," he urged, "We're faster than they are, but we can't afford to let up."

"I'm doing the best I can," Leoric wheezed, struggling to catch his breath in all the excitement of battle. "Just keep going, I'll catch up."

"I'm not about to leave you behind. Hold on to me and we'll get out of this together."

They rode hard to the south for a half mile, but Leoric suddenly grabbed Vesian by the mailed sleeve and urged his steed to a halt. He sagged forward and cried out in pain, grabbing at this chest where the big orc had struck him. Vesian leaned close and saw blood staining the blue surcoat.

"I... I am injured," Leoric gasped. "That blow nearly caved my chest in."

"For a moment, I thought he had killed you," Vesian laughed nervously. "But you're tougher than I expected."

"I fear he did," said Leoric, his breath coming shallow. "I've broken many ribs and I can barely breathe. The ride... you would not believe the agony I am in." He grimaced and braced himself against his horse with one arm. Vesian put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"We must get out of the open ground," he urged, "Then we can hide and rest. But we must make it back to Neupont with all haste."

"You go," Leoric gasped, grimacing again and Vesian realized it was a colossal effort just for Leoric to speak. "I'm done for, Vesian," he wheezed, and Vesian felt his blood freeze. "I won't make it any further."

"You will," he heard himself say. "You will. We'll make it to Neupont and find you a physician. You'll be alright. Think of Chateau Valeur, and the orchards in spring bloom."

"It's a nice thought," Leoric gasped. He sagged against Vesian in his saddle, and his eyes grew distant. "Bury me under that old oak where the maids would do the washing. I always found that spot so peaceful."

"I won't bury you anywhere for many more years, old friend."

"And take my sword," Leoric went on, his breath beginning to fade. "It belongs in the hand of the truest knight in the realm. And that would be you."

Leoric pressed the blade into his hand and Vesian's hands involuntarily closed around it. He had long envied the knight-banneret's sword, but never wanted to claim it like this.

"You're going to use that sword," Vesian insisted. He choked back a sob, and his vision clouded with tears. "You're going to stand beside me on the walls of Neupont and break this horde. Then we will go on to many more quests. You're not going to die, Leoric."

"We all die sooner or later, Vesian. My time has come." He slumped against Vesian, and his arms went limp.

"Leoric?" Vesian said, shaking him with urgency. "Leoric!" But the knight did not move.

---

Bolrog seated himself on his throne and bid his warriors to bring in the prisoners. First were a score of wretched peasants, captured when his army had burned farmsteads and holdfasts. They were thrown naked and pleading before him and he condemned them to slavery in short order. Bralzok claimed two of them for his patron's blood-stained altar, Nakham claimed a pretty girl for his bed, and the rest were all sent to the quartermaster for use as porters and water carriers.

Next, his important prisoners were brought in. Four knights, stripped of their weapons and horse, were thrown to the rug before his throne. They rose up on their knees, two defiant and two pleading for mercy. One of them, a weeping weakling who somehow presented himself as their leader, stood up and stretched his hands out toward Bolrog to beg for mercy.

"He says he is a great warrior among his people," Bralzok sneered as he translated the human's words. "He offers you much gold for his freedom."

"Hah!" Bolrog barked. "This is what your people think is a great warrior? You are hardly fit to be a slave!"

The man quailed when the warlock translated for him and fell to his knees again.

"He begs not to be made a slave. He says it is beneath him," the warlock laughed. "Should I cut out his heart on my altar and offer it to the Bloody Ones?"

"Hmm," Bolrog mused. He liked the thought of the human screaming as the warlock tore his chest open to rip out his beating heart. He had seen many other sacrifices, and they all brought him both great joy at the suffering of weaklings but also renewed strength as the warlock used the power of his masters to imbue him with sorcerous power. "How much gold is he willing to offer us in order to spare his pathetic life?"

Bralzok stepped closer to the man as he translated, his crooked green hands caressing a wand of bleached bone thrust through his belt. The man stammered and stuttered a reply, and Bralzok's lips curled back to show yellowed teeth in a cruel smile.

"He promises two hundred thousand écus, and another ten thousand for each of his warriors."

Bolrog tried not to let his surprise show. This ransom might be more than all he could loot from the Mark, assuming the treacherous coward delivered. But it was too great a sum for him to have the man killed out of hand, as he so desired. He found his manner execrable but compelled himself to nod.

"Two hundred and thirty thousand écus, and you and your men will be spared. But do not test my patience, or you will suffer the consequences!"

The man fell to his knees in pitiful thanks even before Bralzok had finished translating. Tears streaked his dirty face and he crawled forward to kiss Bolrog's feet. The orc king kicked him away and bid his guards carry the four captives off to a cage somewhere. With the royal audience at an end, the warlock crept close to Bolrog's throne, smelling of dried blood and burnt spice.

"Your conquests go well," he whispered in the king's ear. "When the pathetic wretch delivers, we will be rich. Your allies will be pleased to know that you have already won them so much gold."

"My allies," Bolrog mused. "It was my warriors who captured these men. Why should I share with them when they ran from battle?"

"My king," the warlock protested, "was it not your plan that the Wildmen would flee and lure the enemy into a hasty pursuit?"

"It was," Bolrog agreed. "But that does not excuse their conduct. If they wanted to reap the rewards, they should have stood and fought, as my warriors did. I will not share the spoils with cowards."

"Perhaps a small token of appreciation," suggested Bralzok, but Bolrog waved him away. "Great king, your allies follow you in expectation of spoils. Without plunder, they will return home and continue warring against one another."

"If they want spoils, they must fight!" Bolrog growled. "I will not succor cowards and layabouts. This is not open for discussion, warlock. Go, make your offerings to the Dark Powers, and leave me be to plan future conquests."

The warlock scowled beneath his cowl but withdrew without another word. Bolrog watched him go, then turned to the opening of his tent. The sun was going down, drawing this day to a close, but his conquests were only beginning.

---

Their return to Neupont was somber, and they found the town in a panic. The streets were crowded with settlers fleeing the unprotected farmlands and townsfolk fleeing the Mark entirely. Carts and wagons blocked the street in a massive logjam, and it took them nearly an hour to make it from the gate to the marquis' keep. On his ride north, Vesian had thought of returning to the Gate to bed Theophanie again, but as they passed the Gate he found that his heart was not in it.

The inn was packed to the rafters anyway, and he doubted they would have been able to find a place to sneak away and fuck. Looking behind him, he spied Estefanie pushing her way through the crowd with a meager pack of all her belongings on her shoulder. He sighed, his heart heavy, and wished he could have defended the stockade better that she would not have been forced to flee.