Asgoleth the Warrior

Asgoleth the Warrior - By Bill Kirkwood.

CHAPTER ONE

A tall young warrior strode fearlessly through the filth mired streets of the Haven. In this part of the great city of Torr lurked rogues of all nations. Here thieves and murderers caroused in drunken revelry with paint caked harlots and the men of the Torran watch feared to enter, save in large numbers. Often the sounds of muffled, deadly combat could be heard from within dark alleyways but none cared or dared to investigate until the light of day revealed the dark deeds and grisly corpses of the night before.

This warrior however, walked confidently, unafraid of the sinister figures that lurked in shadowed doorways. He knew that he was more than a match for any who might attack him. One look at his mightily muscled frame, clad in the plain but serviceable harness of a mercenary soldier of fortune, was enough to warn that only hard blows and death awaited any foolish enough to try.

His appearance too was enough to give men pause. He moved with the silent, easy grace of the wild creature that he was, poised always to leap into bloody, savage action on the instant. The long braided yellow hair flowing from beneath the rim of his iron helmet marked him out as a barbarian from the far north. So too the fierce grey eyes that scanned the darkness all around him, missing little. A cold, mirthless grin touched the warrior’s lips as he saw furtive forms slip back into the darkness and his keen, wilderness bred ears heard the soft rasp of half drawn daggers sliding back into their scabbards as their owners decided, wisely, to await easier prey.

His calloused palm lay lightly upon the hilt of the heavy northern broadsword that was strapped about his lean waist. Its hilt was worn smooth with long use but the keen edge of that terrible weapon was kept honed to razor sharpness and in the warrior’s skilled hand the blade became almost a living thing, seeking out the blood of his enemies.

Such was his prowess with the sword that in the short time he had served in the Torran army, he had made his name known in the taverns and marketplaces of the city and in higher places too. Many were the tales told of Asgoleth of Calthia, warrior of the north.

Life as a mercenary soldier in the army of King Aractus of Torr suited Asgoleth’s wild lawless nature and gave him plenty of opportunity to add to his growing fame. His fighting skills were tested to the full in the constant border wars that raged between Torr and the land of Akon, which lay to the south, and his mercenary lust for loot was oft satisfied by the spoils of war.

The more the young barbarian learned of the Akonites, the more he learned to despise them. They were a cruel race, delighting in the torture and butchery of any who fell captive to them. Their king, a fat barrel of lard called Trannos, had imperial ambitions and had vowed to conquer Torr and enslave her people.

He had sent many armies against her but always they had been driven back by the fierce defenders that garrisoned the forts guarding the passes through the Agar Mountains. All knew of the horrors that would be inflicted on the people of Torr should the Akonites ever break through and so the Torrans kept constant vigil, ever ready to defend their homeland against invaders.

Asgoleth dismissed these gloomy thoughts as he strode on through the winding narrow streets. Ahead of him lay a weeks well earned leave and his mind turned to the pleasures that awaited him among the taverns and bordellos of this great city.

Here in the Haven any vice or pleasure known to man could be had, if a man had gold enough to pay the price. He grinned as he patted the heavy pouch at his belt. He had gold aplenty and he was determined that the girls of Torr would not soon forget him.

The sudden, unmistakable sounds of combat emanating from a dark alley mouth stopped him in his tracks, poised to leap into lethal action. He heard the familiar sounds of blades chopping into flesh, the harsh grunts of dying men and the heavy thud of falling bodies. Such sounds were commonplace here in the Haven and he determined to ignore them and go on his way. After all, he reasoned, he would gain little profit were he to interfere in a quarrel that was none of his business.

He was about to walk away when a girl’s frightened cry rang out, swiftly followed by the sound of a heavy slap and the scuffle of feet. The barbarian’s course was set, men went armed in the Haven and knew what to expect but a girl could not defend herself against armed robbers. Furious at the scum who would attack a helpless woman he drew his great sword and sprang silently forward into the mouth of the alley.

He slipped forward into the alley moving with a stealth and grace impossible for a city bred man and pale moonbeams glittered frostily along the lethal edge of his sword. Like a tawny haired ghost he glided through the darkness and soon he came upon the scene of the fight.

Two men, clad in the uniforms of the palace guard, lay dead on the ground, ghastly wounds leaking their lifeblood into the filth in which they lay. Asgoleth’s keen eyes detected a gleaming line of black blood droplets leading away from the site and he began to follow the grisly trail. At least the slain men had managed to inflict some damage on their foes before they went down which might just make his job a little easier when he caught up to them.

He ran on through the dark alley until at last he made out the dim figures of two robed men ahead of him. One of the men was limping and cursing savagely as he and his companion struggled with the writhing, kicking bundle they bore between them. In each of their free hands they bore long curving scimitars, the blades of which dripped with black gore.

The girl they carried cried out once more and one of the men snarled,

‘Be silent girl or you will feel my sword hilt against your skull!’

His companion gasped,

‘In Balzarr’s name, no! Lord Demos wants the girl alive. You know what he will do to us if we should kill her.’

‘I won’t kill her,’ the first man snarled. ‘Just quieten her down a bit. If she keeps this noise up she will alert the whole city.’

The girl cried out in despair as he raised his sword hand but before he could strike a harsh voice, speaking Torran with a barbarous accent, growled,

‘Stay your hand you cowardly dog. Leave the wench alone and let us see how brave you are against an armed man.’

The robed men spun around to face this new enemy and their faces were contorted into grimaces of hate. They stood thus for only a moment then the uninjured man said,

‘There is little time Alarr, you must deal swiftly with this fool. I will take the girl on ahead and meet you at the boat.’

‘Fear not Morius, I shall be close behind you, now go.’

Morius scooped up the girl and faded away into the night. Alarr pulled back his hood to reveal a shaven head and a thin, cruel face. His eyes glittered malevolently as he advanced, grinning towards the barbarian.

‘You would have done well to attend to your own business you barbar animal. Now you shall die as must all who dare oppose my master’s will.’

Asgoleth’s only answer was to leap suddenly forward into the attack with blurring speed. Their blades met with a resounding clang that drew sparks of red fire from the ringing steel. The blades drew apart and met again and again in a glittering dance of death in which each sought to find a break in the others guard but the combatants were well matched in skill and despite the other mans wound, Asgoleth soon realised that he faced a dangerous opponent.

Twice Alarr the priest almost struck home with that wickedly curved blade and only Asgoleth’s lightning swift reflexes saved him from death. Alarr too bled from several small wounds inflicted by the barbarian’s steel but the loss of blood did not seem to slow him down and he fought on with undiminished fury while all the time Morius and the girl were getting further and further away.

Asgoleth doubled the fury of his strokes giving his wounded enemy no time to draw back or rest and gradually his superior strength and agility began to wear the other down. Alarr was fighting with grim desperation now and the awareness of death was in his eyes. The young barbarian noted the tremor in the others sword arm that spoke of growing fatigue and he pressed home his attack, lunging forward with his blade. As he did so, his foot slipped ion some piece of unseen filth and he staggered forward, off balance. His opponent gave a shriek of triumph and slashed viciously at the young barbarian. A swift sideways leap saved Asgoleth’s life but was not enough to prevent Alarr’s blade from shaving a flap of skin from his shoulder.

Snarling wordlessly Asgoleth recovered his balance and brought his own sword around in a back handed slash. The point of the blade sliced through robe and skin opening a long deep slit in his foeman’s flesh. Alarr staggered back with a curse on his lips but he recovered quickly and leapt once more to attack the Calthian.

Asgoleth frowned; his foe was no ordinary kidnapper. Such a rogue would have fled ere now but this man was different. His black robe and shaven head marked him as some kind of priest though of what cult Asgoleth had no idea.

A snarl escaped him as he thought of the reasons a black clad priest might have for stealing a girl. There were cults that practiced the unholy rituals of human sacrifice to the dark Gods of destruction; the evil and powerful deities who had visited carnage and horror upon the shining cities of the Earth five thousand years before.

It was said that in that long ago age, men could fly through the air and cross land and sea in marvelous machines that could complete in mere hours, journeys that now would take many days and nights of peril filled travel. Aye so great had become the knowledge of men that they even dared to reach for the very stars themselves.

It was their invasion of the heavenly realms that angered the gods that dwelled there and they sent the fury of the Great Destruction to punish man for his arrogance. After it was over and the world had been laid waste, a few survivors emerged from their hiding places and began the long climb back to civilisation. Now, five thousand years later, the cities of man once more raised thrusting towers towards the skies.

Asgoleth sneered at his enemy. Men such as he were cowards and weaklings who lived their lives in fear of their gods. Asgoleth’s people prayed only to one god. His name was Ragnar and he lived in the ground and in the sky and in the wind and in the sea. He was a strong god and went where he pleased, as did the warriors of Calthia. Ragnar demanded only that his people lived their lives with courage and met their deaths bravely. He demanded no sacrifices, human or otherwise and Asgoleth felt a deep contempt for this creature before him. He and his kind believed in human sacrifice, as long as long as it was some poor helpless wretch bound upon the altar and not themselves. If this was the fate these men intended for the girl then it was more important than ever that he succeed in his rescue attempt.

Alarr launched a savage swipe at him but he beat aside the others blade and as he did so he lashed out with an iron hard fist. The blow landed squarely in his enemy’s face and the priest gave a strangled cry as splinters of bone were smashed backwards into his brain. His body went rigid for a moment then he slumped to the ground at the barbarian’s feet and lay still.

Asgoleth knew that he was dead and stepped over the broken body without a downward glance. Somewhere in the darkness ahead were the other priest and his helpless captive. Asgoleth vowed that she would not long remain so. He had rid the world of one demon worshipper this night and he intended to send the other one after him into the arms of whatever dark deity they served. Fired with fury and the lust for battle the young barbarian sped off into the gloom in silent, deadly, pursuit.

His long legs carried him swiftly through the night and soon he saw ahead of him the shadowy forms of the other priest and the girl. She was still struggling but she could not break free of his strong grasp. Asgoleth increased his pace. Ahead lay the river where, no doubt, a boat lay moored awaiting the arrival of the priests and their captive. He had to stop Morius from reaching it. Asgoleth abandoned his stealthy approach in favour of more speed and the man ahead heard his running footsteps and turned.

‘You took your time killing that barbarian pig, Alarr. Now get over here and help me with this wench.’

A snarl of fury appeared on his face as he realised that the looming figure behind him was not that of his companion. Swiftly he pulled the girl around in front of him and placed the razor sharp blade of his sword against her throat.

‘Come no nearer barbarian or I will slay her!’

Asgoleth came to a halt and stood glaring at him, watching closely for any lapse in his enemy’s attention. A sneer of contempt grew on the priests face.

‘So the mighty warrior is halted in his tracks by concern for a mere girl. My lord Demos was right, your kind are weak. But not we who follow the path laid down for us by the dread lord Balzarr. Always we shall triumph over you. With lord Demos to lead us the land of Akon shall rule the world.’

The man threw his head back and laughed wildly and the light of the fanatic burned in his eyes.

Asgoleth frowned at his words, he had heard the name of Demos before and always it had been associated with evil deeds. A sorcerer in the service of King Trannos of Akon, he was an evil and ambitious man by all accounts and steeped in evil lore. A thrill of superstitious unease ran through him. He had heard many dark tales of sorcerers and magicians and he wished to have nothing to do with any of them but he could not just walk away and let this helpless girl be taken by one such as that. He shrugged and took a step forward and the priest snarled.

‘I warn you barbarian I will not hesitate to kill her. Lay down your sword and back away. Do it or she dies!’

The smooth flesh of the girl’s throat whitened as the pressure from the priest’s blade increased and her eyes were full of terror as she looked at Agoleth. He gripped his sword hilt tightly as he considered the situation. If he attacked he could not hope to reach her before Morius slew her. Yet perhaps such a swift death would be easier for her considering what the priest had planned for her. He glared at the man and snarled.

‘If you kill her your master will not be pleased with his dog. What punishment will he inflict on you if you fail him?’

The priests face went white as the barbarian’s words sank home. He well knew that the punishment would be terrible indeed. Demos did not accept failure from his servants. Nervous and angry, Morius tightened his grip on the girl until she cried out in pain and he growled,

‘Enough of this, I will talk no more with you. Drop your sword now and step away or she dies.’

Asgoleth saw that he meant what he said. He would kill her now unless his order was obeyed. A moan of despair escaped the girl as Asgoleth laid down his sword and stepped back. Morius grinned, threw back his head and laughed his wild laugh again, exulting in his power over the barbarian. Asgoleth saw his chance and swiftly drawing his heavy, double-edged dagger, he launched it at his enemy.

The blade, propelled by the mighty muscles of his arm, flew unerringly to its target, the point smashing through the priests throat to emerge from the back of his head in a black spray of blood and brains. The maniac laughter died to a shocked, blood choked gurgle and his hand from which his scimitar had fallen, clutched futilely at the protruding hilt. For a moment he stared in disbelief at the young barbarian and then his legs gave way and he slumped to the ground and lay still. The girl too gave a moan and fell to the ground in a dead faint and Asgoleth snatched up his sword and ran over to where they lay, ready to finish off the priest should he still live. He need not have feared. Deaths iron grip had already closed on the priest and he was now on his way to hell. He would never harm anyone again.

Asgoleth's keen eye caught the glint of gold about the man's neck and he stooped and pulled free a golden amulet. The amulet bore the image of a hideous reptilian face and he felt a shudder of distaste. Was this an image of the dead priests god? Despite the barbarians mercenary lust for gold he threw the thing from him into the darkness where it belonged. It felt unclean in his hand and he wanted no part of it.

He retrieved his dagger and wiped both it and his sword clean on the dead man’s robe. Then he strode over to where the girl lay. He knelt down beside her and gathered her up in his strong arms, brushing her foaming black hair away from her face.

He saw at once, from the torn remains of her fine gown of Kossian silk and from the costly jewels entwined in her hair and about her throat, that this girl he had saved was no ordinary wench. His brow wrinkled in thought as he looked down at her. She looked familiar to him and he wondered how that could be.

He was a common mercenary soldier while she was obviously a highborn lady; such as she did not mingle with the common soldiery. Then, like a thunderbolt, it struck him. He remembered where he had seen this beautiful young girl before. Six months ago, when he had been stationed at Fort Kronos at the mouth of the Agar pass, King Aractus of Torr had come to inspect his troops. With him had been his retinue of lords and ladies and generals and among their number had been the high priestess of Solus, the Goddess of Light and Life. This slim young girl was none other than that same high priestess.

He looked down upon her and grinned hugely. Perhaps, after all, there was profit to be made from good deeds. For this girl held other titles too. Lying within the protection of his arms was none other than the Princess Amira, future queen of mighty Torr.