Red Axe, Black Sun Read online

  Red Axe,

  Black Sun

  Michael Karner

  Copyright © 2013 Michael Karner

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dramatis personae

  Prologue – House of Cards

  Chapter One – The Cave of Mother Goulcrest

  Chapter Two – Wolf Pit Plains

  Chapter Three – Skybridge

  Chapter Four – The Valkyrie

  Chapter Five – The Surgeon’s House

  Chapter Six – Bleed

  Chapter Seven – Exposed

  Chapter Eight – Warband Army Camp

  Chapter Nine – Burn

  Chapter Ten – Skulltaker

  Chapter Eleven – King’s Army Camp

  Chapter Twelve – Unliving

  Chapter Thirteen – Assault

  Chapter Fourteen – Cow Head Bay

  Chapter Fifteen – Kolanthel Rise

  Chapter Sixteen – Lion Among Lambs

  Chapter Seventeen – Old Brotherhood Manse

  Chapter Eighteen – Sewer Rats

  Chapter Nineteen – Jarl’s Hall

  Chapter Twenty – Forsaken Chapel

  Chapter Twenty-One – Old Town Underworld

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Pariahs’ Aqueduct

  Connect with the Author

  Dramatis personae

  Dryston of Decia Rogue, ex-lover of Kyra Celeste

  Kyra Celeste Sorceress, ex-lover of Dryston of Decia

  Skadi Valkyrie

  Jade Cyrus Herbalist, outlander

  Cormack Barbarian

  Thaena Ashcroft Crossbowwoman

  Gabriel Werdum Necromancer

  Vacomani Warband:

  Jarnsaxa Ornsdottir Warlord

  Freya Lictor

  Barknar Druglord

  Soma Ice-Veins Cleric

  Asukara Uryah Crossbowman, outlander

  Godsmite The Unnamed One

  Treverian Army:

  Tancred of Treveria King

  Gilbert Belrand Special Forces

  Ysara Horne Kolanthel-hunter

  Other:

  Haddock Criminal

  Calder Hired muscle

  Argis Cairn-breaker Gangland-boss

  Sendel Varon Kolanthel-assassin, elf

  Connor Wyle Lover of Kyra Celeste

  I could tell you about the four kingdoms of men: Kaeiwiel, Velhonia, Alvaeon and most important for us, Treveria… but I see no point. These kingdoms won’t hold out long. All that matters now, is Skybridge, a town in the north of Treveria close to the northern wilds. Built upon ancient ruins and lying on a huge lake, it holds one thousand seven hundred forty-one souls, of that two hundred forty-nine non-human. Thirteen kilometres north-west of it lies a small crypt that seems unimportant, but it’s not. A cult lies buried here that shared deep connections to Skybridge, believing… in most horrendous things to happen.

  PROLOGUE

  HOUSE OF CARDS

  IN THE HOUSE OF CARDS you needed a good hand. For the first time this evening, however, Skadi noticed that the young man whose game she watched had a bad hand. Not that his cards were bad, no. As far as she knew, two red thanes and a black jarl was something that could be built upon. It was only that the young man’s actual hand was in a bad state and didn’t belong to him anymore.

  He had introduced himself as Bram shortly before, when he and his four battle brothers arrived at the tavern.

  They were anything but when his cards scattered away, blood trailing over the desk like spilt candle wax. The axe that stuck in place where his hand had been, belonged to his comrade, Gorm. And for all Skadi knew, she was the reason for it.

  The argument they got into when she revealed her tattoos to them took a turn for the worse. Gorm War-Anvil and Sifnar Red-Shoal smashed the table out of the way and made sure Bram and Haefnir wouldn’t live through the night.

  She could feel the House of Cards going silent and all eyes staring at her.

  Their bloody handiwork on their former friends done, Gorm and Sifnar turned to her, their blades dripping.

  Gorm stepped in front of her and grabbed her. No one of the bystanders dared to intervene. His companion kept them at bay like a wolf defending its prey. Skadi got dragged outside into the scourging storm.

  “Not a good idea to show this around here,” Gorm said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Skadi said.

  “Oh sure,” he said. “My… friends used to work for the Cairn-breaker. Probably a bounty on a girl wearing something like this. Dead, not alive. They would have slaughtered you right there without batting an eye.”

  “Like you just did to your friends?” Skadi asked.

  Gorm grunted.

  “You’re welcome,” Sifnar said taking her in between them and trudging out into the night. She wasn’t in the right state to object and nothing good would come if she stayed here.

  As she looked back, she could see the last companion, Magnus, visibly torn between the sides his friends had chosen. He was the only one of the five who wasn’t involved in the argument, the only one who didn’t understand.

  The wind outside made Skadi’s dress flutter, giving Magnus one last glimpse of her tattoo.

  Skadi knew it wouldn’t make much sense to him.

  It was the depiction of a huge dragon across her back, she herself had only been able to see in mirroring glass. There were faces, too, faces that were burned into her skin from memory by the few survivors of her home.

  Names had been added later in different rune-handwritings as soon as their identities became known.

  Skadi remembered shedding tears for every one of them. They weren’t from pain, they were from loss and hatred.

  The faces weren’t burned in her skin only, also in her mind. Those were the faces that had taken everything from her, her future, her past, her present.

  The small ones, the goons that were still around after it happened and that were easy to trace, were already crossed out. She remembered each ones death, brought about by violence at her behest. After years of wandering and searching, only two faces remained untouched. Two big ones, the kingpins who had the wealth or connections to withdraw to the south, had escaped retribution. Skadi felt relief that after all this time and distance, one of the faces had been recognized.

  Behind her, Magnus averted his gaze while Bram and Haefnir choked on their own blood. Out of the five companions sent, two were dead, two were fled, and only one would return to the army camp. Magnus turned and ran.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CAVE OF MOTHER GOULCREST

  TWO LIVES, ONE MOMENT. No second chance. There is not much time, when the world is ending.

  The rain was pouring in unnatural proportions and the dark sky made visibility extremely low. Both did not hinder Kyra from looking for Dryston.

  They said a crypt was his home now. They said that was where he rested. So Kyra Celeste, full of hope and desire, went to see him in the direst of times.

  It lay in the wild, abandoned and outside the cities in which the people shivered at night.

  Even without nature’s tides, the entrance of the crypt was a cold and dark place. Moisture clung on the sarcophagi and the broken tiles crushed beneath the heels of her riding boots. She felt the tight embrace of her trousers and magic wrap cool on the parts of her skin that weren’t covered by bracelets and hide breeches. Goose bumps rose on her neck, which crawled down from her hairline where the w
eight of her wet hair was held up by a glass star circlet, down her back under her etched jacket.

  Despite this, the place was not abandoned at all. She inhaled the smell of smoked herbs, sweat, the stale stink of dust and bones, a boiling soup. Signs of habitation unfurled before her, wreathed in candlelight. Chests and barrels, chairs, a table with dishes and food, were all standing in the room. She could hear a man humming to himself in a deep, low voice. Whoever the voice belonged to, it was not Dryston. Kyra tried to sneak closer and get a glance on him. Her naked hands became entangled in cobwebs, then brushed with her rings over rattling bones that were hanging from the ceiling like a wind chime. The noise startled Kyra and was enough to catch the singing man’s attention.

  Cormack, a giant of a man turned to her from one of the chambers, alarmed by the rattling bone-traps which Kyra had walked into.

  She let her hands wander down past the vials and spell-scrolls stashed in her silk sash and let her fingers rest on the shark-hide wrapped grips of her weapons as she walked by.

  The strange brute went back to his business with a grunt, bludgeoning his leather armor.

  “Dryston is back there,” he bellowed, while not even regarding her with his dull, amber eyes.

  Kyra turned to look at the man, whose muscled arm was extended, pointing out the way. Bare headed, wide shoulder guards extending from his bull-neck. A heavy baldric enclosed his muscular frame, which stored sacred texts of sagas and the bone of a saint. Cormack nodded his big shaven head. His tight Kingslayer trousers creaked. They were furnished with a patchwork of crude but practical hide reinforcements. Cormack rubbed the soles of his worn hardened leather boots over the brittle crypt floor.

  “Then it is true that he’s here,” Kyra said to herself.

  She noticed Thaena Ashcroft watching her from another room.

  “He is here,” Thaena whispered.

  “Lead me to him!” Kyra demanded.

  Thaena nodded and led Kyra deeper into the crypt.

  The crypt went on to unlit tunnels, natural caverns where the construction work had ended and left wooden scaffolds. Her companion’s apparel told Kyra much about the people living in the crypt. The Alvaeonian red-black stripes of her combat jacket, mixed together with the Kaeiwieli red-green on her trousers was something unthinkable for regulars standing under a crown. These were free people at best, outlaws at worst.

  A big hall plastered with torches awaited her.

  Kyra’s attention was immediately drawn to Dryston of Decia, sitting on a throne underneath a massive candelabra.

  Caught in pale light, he opened his eyes, grey in the dim surrounding but with a hint of icy blue. Those eyes that had made her knees weak in the past, and the look of his face: angular, clean-shaven, stern, confident, all too often with a crooked smile, just like now.

  “Kyra Celeste,” he said. “I missed you.”

  Her heart released a surge of emotions, which gave her chills and let her skin hair stand up. A shiver ran up her back. Kyra could never prepare herself for Dryston’s presence, and after all these days her feelings were even stronger. Memories from years ago collided in her perception. A certain feel, a certain aura had stayed familiar, but so many things had emerged and left him shrouded in mystery.

  Another woman was standing beside Dryston, eyeing her with grotesquely shadowed eyes. Kyra looked askance at her.

  She was outlandish. Swampland waders covered her feet up to her knees. Too much of her long legs were revealed under tight hide faulds, leading up to a feline predator waistguard adorned with potions, oils and venoms. Around her neck she wore a talisman, as if a small lucky charm would help when she was bad luck incarnate.

  She reluctantly made way for Kyra, allowing her to approach Dryston.

  “Dryston,” Kyra said, before they embraced.

  The touch of his skin was warm and brought back memories of a better time. She let herself fall into his strong arms that had claimed lives and had protected her back then. Such relief to see him. She felt secure, and if he still was the same as before she knew she could trust him. For the first time in days she didn’t feel alone. “It’s good to see you,” she told him.

  “It’s good to be seen,” he said. He looked her in the eyes. “I’m surprised you finally found me. But not surprised that you came looking for me.”

  Kyra could feel the others staring at her. Out of every corner of her eyes, figures emerged from the half-light. Some were so outlandish that they wore a strange aura around them, like the dark-skinned woman besides Dryston. Others were pale and ragtag, from unshaven adventurers to what looked like members of a strange sect.

  Kyra looked around to the other crypt-dwellers. They were nothing like Dryston, she thought, but apparently they all shared a common goal.

  “Judging by the fact I’m still alive, I’m led to believe you are here of your own free will,” she said. “So this is your hideout. Why here?”

  Dryston held out an inviting arm to lead Kyra through the underground domain. She didn’t need someone to explain the actions of the crypt-dwellers. The echoing noises from the dark spoke for themselves. Sometimes she even made out the movements and shadows from figures, fleeting impressions of activity. It was a busy place. Everyone had his agenda and things to do. Plans were laid, repairs made on the building and mechanisms, training, meditation, salvage and scavenge.

  “The cities are not the right place for the likes of me,” Dryston began as they walked off into a corridor elevated by broad stairs. “Maybe for you, but I’ve grown tired of them.”

  Kyra touched the handrail to find out that the stonework was slick. Water dropped on different sites from the ceiling and resonated with loud drips.

  They went into some sort of storage room, where open treasure chests had been placed in the center. Kyra noticed that her companion was limping with every step. Swelling of the knee, triggered by numerous blows from weapons and the bearing of heavy weight. But everyone in this crypt had injuries to deal with, it came with the job. Thaena Ashcroft had suffered a stiff elbow due to her crossbow. It was an injury acquired at a young age, when beginning combat training. Most of the crypt-dwellers had old injuries either from combat or from rigorous training. But they had to deal with it. Training was the only thing that could keep them alive.

  “Bowing to the aristocrats and the corrupt is not my thing,” Dryston explained. “Being used and exploited, until nothing is left of you but a husk.” Dryston stopped and turned to Kyra. “Once I found out how much of a fortune they were making on our backs, I knew I’d rather become the master of my own domain.”

  “Do I look like a husk to you?” Kyra asked. She swallowed and tried to hide her own marks, superficial burns on her fingertips from magic discharge and heat. Beneath sloughed off skin and open blisters, exposed nerve endings tingled painfully.

  He examined her doubtfully, taking her hand and caressing the scars over its back. She couldn’t hide the unusually slick and hairless parts of skin from him. “Not what I was saying. You look like you were busy again, though, and you come here in the middle of the night all alone,” he said. “How is your career?”

  “Proceeding.” Kyra thought about how different their professions now were. She tried to imagine the scores of skulls and skeletons that were put to rest behind the masonry in this burial ground, and the things that could still be found among the dead.

  “Come,” said Dryston.

  They reached a dead end with a hoist that led upwards. They had to share the small platform, so that Dryston could smell Kyra’s flowery hair. He reached over her to close the compartment and held her safe on their tour. She felt his strong arms embracing her body more than was probably necessary and didn’t oppose.

  “Why are you hiding in a crypt?” Kyra said, looking over her shoulder. “I assume this is your way of leaving everything behind. It’s funny, the world is tearing itself more and more apart each day, and I’m not even sure if you realize it.” She almost laughed at the notio
n. “What made you leave?”

  Dryston’s face froze.

  “I never hid from anything. I’m just dedicated to my life here.”

  “So, you’ve gotten used to living without the possibility of a knife in your back at any moment”, Kyra said. “Have you grown soft?”

  “Not likely,” Dryston said. “I still have to constantly watch my back here, living with these lawless vagrants.”

  “I heard this crypt was dangerous,” said Kyra. “Some of the people I asked even told me it was haunted.”

  Kyra felt his chest against her back when he shrugged.

  “Darling, you should know it is always the haunted places that I choose,” said Dryston.

  “As your home?” Kyra asked. “Hmm, I’ve noticed that you seem to have an obsession with death.” The hoist reached the top of its ascent and Dryston opened the cage and helped Kyra get her footing on the new ground.

  Dryston shook his head. “No, you’ve got to understand, this is not my home.”

  The way led to an opening, a terrace enclosed by a stone balustrade. The wind whipped rain into the vault, but Kyra let her shoulders sag and instead relished the prickle on her face.

  “This does not belong to me,” Dryston said. “It belongs to no one, except only the dead that reside in those tombs. Like everyone else here, I am just a temporary occupant, and it is a fragile habitation. There are rooms and tunnels down there which are unknown to me. None of us has journeyed that deep into the crypt. Well, none that have come back, at least. When we sleep here, our rest is disturbed by dreams of the undead moaning in anguish and anger at our intrusion. It’s like sleeping in a bad part of town with your door unlocked and swung wide open. You can never rest easy.”

  They stood under the arched entrance of the upper crypt, staring out at the abating storm. The only source of light was an occasional flash of lightning, briefly illuminating their faces. The grumbling aftermath of the storm brought with it the fragnant scent of freshly fallen rain.

  “I see self-preservation is not an instinct you possess any more. You have become reckless,” Kyra said and laid her hand against Dryston’s chest. “You seem to have no regard for your own life anymore, or the lives of others. Well, fine by me.”