An Army of Heroes Read online

  The Last Great Hero

  Book 3:

  An

  Army of Heroes

  All characters and events portrayed

  in this book are fictional,

  and any resemblance to real people

  or incidents is coincidental

  (and, let’s face it, unlikely).

  Copyright © 2019

  1st Release March. 2019

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  An

  Army

  Of

  Heroes

  Sunday

  Munday

  Tewsday

  Wensday

  Thersday

  Faraday

  Satyrday

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Sunday

  Rawk, the last of the Great Heroes, didn’t know how long he should wait. Sitting at a table near the back of the taproom he squinted into the fug and the noise again, as if Prince Weaver’s disguise might actually be working for the first time in history, as if Rawk wouldn’t have been annoyed by his presence before he even saw him. But there was just the usual rabble, hunched over their meals and their drinks and their shady deals. There were no guards and certainly no prince. Weaver was notoriously late, but this was getting ridiculous.

  In the babble of half-heard conversations, with the smell of sweat and ale and over-cooked pork heavy in the air, Rawk leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The only good thing about meeting Weaver for lunch was the opportunity it gave him to sit and pretend he was a normal person. Everyone knew he had lunch with the prince, and it seemed to be the only time they didn’t feel the right to annoy him with questions and requests. Conversations continued around him as if he wasn’t even there.

  “...said the canal is almost done. If the bloody dwarves don’t stuff it up...”

  “...troop of mercenaries came in on the Fernal Dance. Had one ale each at the Golden Crown, then marched away north...”

  “...another riot yesterday...”

  A few minutes later, Rawk grunted, deciding he’d waited more than long enough. He scratched at his short chin-beard. The Blue Caravan was a terrible place for lunch anyway. The kitchen wasn’t visible from his seat but, judging by the tankard he’d been forced to drink from, he doubted it had been cleaned any time in the last year; even the more entrenched drinkers seemed to be wary of the food.

  But Weaver appeared in the doorway just as he was pushing his chair away from the table.

  “Path, damn it.” He sighed and sank back down, laying his big hands on the rough timber of the table as if to keep them away from his weapons.

  The prince spotted him and wove his way though the clutter of tables, trying to look nonchalant. The effect was ruined when he stubbed his toe on a loose board, stumbled into the back of a sailor and nearly flipped a table and all its contents onto the floor. Normally, in a place like this, that would have resulted in a fight, but everyone in the room knew who Weaver was, disguise and all, and reluctantly passed up on the chance for some light entertainment. The sailors muttered apologies and serving girls hurried out to clean up the mess.

  Rawk shook his head. “If you’re going to make me wait half an hour, Weaver, then next time I won’t be turning up.”

  “I’m not Weaver,” Weaver hissed, looking around to see who was watching, completely forgetting about the fight that didn’t happen a moment before. Then he spoke more loudly. “My name is Juspert. I am a merchant from Frenable.” He sat on the seat next to Rawk and sent his two guards away with a gesture.

  Rawk watched them go. “Do you honestly believe that nobody recognizes you? A stupid hat and a fake beard aren’t a disguise.”

  “What’s wrong with my hat?” Weaver straightened the item in question. It didn’t improve the look in any way.

  “Those things have been out of style in Frenable for at least ten years, Weaver.”

  “Well, I don’t get out as much as I used to; you know that. Anyway, you chose to come, Rawk. You are the last of the great Heroes and I can’t make you do anything.”

  “Of course you can’t. But you can whine constantly if I don’t. And you can make my life difficult by not paying me or by doing any of a dozen other things.” He didn’t actually need the money, but Weaver didn’t need to know that.

  “Do you really think I would do that?”

  Rawk didn’t bother answering. He rubbed his hand over his bald head and looked about the room.

  Weaver sulked. “You come because you want to, Rawk. You come because you know what we had is not something you find every day.”

  “What we had?” Rawk sighed. “This is about the damn ‘good old days’ again? When will you admit that they’re gone?”

  “They might be gone, Rawk, but we can bring them back.” Weaver looked intensely at Rawk. “I love you and I think...”

  Rawk blinked. He sat for a moment, thinking. “What? What did you just say?”

  But Weaver looked at his fingers, fiddling with an ithel coin. “Nothing.”

  “No. You—”

  “All right. I said ‘I love you’. Isn’t it obvious?” Weaver reached out and took Rawk’s hand.

  Rawk pulled away. “What in Path’s name...”

  “I know you love me too, Rawk. You just have to—”

  “I don’t love you, Weaver.”

  “But what about that time...” Weaver leaned in closer and Rawk leaned back.

  “What time?”

  “In Mesatip.”

  “Mesatip?” Rawk shook his head trying to remember. He knew he was getting old but, as far as he knew, he wasn’t starting to forget things. Not important things anyway. “I have no idea—”

  “We’d just fought the gabanochs.”

  “Right, yes, I remember that.”

  “And that night...”

  Rawk tried to think. They’d fought the stinking gabanochs a few miles up the side of a mountain and been stuck in a blizzard over night.

  “I will never forget that night, Rawk. The way you held me...”

  “Held you?” Rawk said. Now he remembered, though he obviously didn’t remember the same thing Weaver did. “Are you kidding? It wasn’t some romantic evening with candles and flowers. We were freezing. We would’ve died.” All they’d done was share body warmth.

  “I know you love me too, Rawk,” Weaver said, as if Rawk hadn’t said anything at all.

  “That was forty years ago.”

  “I’ve never forgotten that night, Rawk.”

  “I had until a minute ago. And you’ve been wandering around all this time... What? Pining after me?” Rawk grunted. “You’re an idiot, Weaver, and you need to get over your fantasies.” He started rise, but the prince grabbed his shirt and held on tight.

  “Fantasies? What do you think this is all about, Rawk? Katamood? Prince Weaver?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I did this all for you.” He waved his free hand, encompassing the tavern and the city beyond. “Everything. I was never going to be a great Hero like you, but I could do this. I wanted to be worthy of you.”

  Rawk pulled the prince’s hand away from his shirt but Weaver grabbed him again and pulled him in close.

  “You are not going to walk out on me. Not now. Not after everything I have done.” His eyes were wild, his jaw tense and qu
ivering.

  Rawk grabbed the other man’s hand again, slowly pulling the fingers away from the cloth. “I have things to do, Weaver.”

  He headed towards the door and resisted the urge to look back. “Path, what was that all about?” He almost tripped on the same board Weaver had found earlier, apologized randomly, and finally got outside. Ducking under the sagging roof on the front porch, Rawk stepped down onto the street with a sigh of relief and unconsciously fished a few coins from a pouch on his belt for the gaggle of children who were waiting.

  “Tell us a story, Rawk,” one of them shouted. The others took up the chorus.

  Rawk rubbed his hand over his head again as he tried to focus his thoughts. He straightened the white cotton of his shirt where Weaver had grabbed it. He retied the laces down the front. “All right, all right. Yes. A story.” About the good old days. He held up his hand and waited for what amounted to silence amongst a group of children. A few adults were hanging around the back as well, as if they had just happened to pause there for reasons completely unrelated to stories. No, the good old days were gone. “Not so long ago, a... troll came to our fair city. It was a huge creature almost twice my height, and looked as fierce as a northern winter. But it wasn’t fierce. Not really. It was sad and alone and was looking for something it had lost. I killed it anyway, without thinking.” The crowd was a bit restless. Rawk didn’t care. “And a few days later, I journeyed into the Old Forest to see if I could find any more of the creatures.” By the time Rawk got to the bit where a dwarf saved him most of the children had gone, but there were at least a dozen adults listening in stunned silence. He shrugged. “So we killed the entire family that day, plus their pets. But only after a dwarf saved me. And then I came home and was treated like a hero. Prince Weaver gave me money. People asked me to tell them the tale, or tales of when I killed other creatures, while they swore at and spat at the dwarves who were doing the work that kept Katamood running.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Is that true, Rawk? Were you really saved by a dwarf?”

  It probably wouldn’t matter what Rawk said in response; the story would soon be spreading around the city, one way or the other. He sighed. “Of course not. That would be crazy, wouldn’t it? It’s just a story.”

  Everyone started talking at once and Rawk was worried it was going to degenerate very quickly. Perhaps there would be walnuts thrown in tribute as everyone ignored the bits of the world they didn’t like. On the other hand, there might be a riot. Admittedly it would be a very small riot, but he really didn’t feel up to it. Not today. Not now. Once again he resisted the urge to look back to see if Weaver was following him. He was saved, from riots and looking both, by a scream that he wasn’t sure he even heard. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was looking to be saved. But a team of dwarves were working on the sewers not far away and, though those down in the trench continued to work, throwing dirt up to the street like an endlessly erupting volcano, all the others had paused, heads cocked, trying to listen as well.

  The scream came again. Louder this time.

  Rawk drew Kaj and the closest of his crowd reared back. They parted before him and he darted across the ancient cobbles of the road and into an alley, jumping rubbish, splashing through puddles left over from last night’s rain. Buildings crowded close on either side, plaster in-fills dirty and grimy between the exposed timber frames. Another scream, from a different person this time, but at least Rawk knew he was getting close.

  He barreled into an intersection, sliding to a stop. He rubbed at his sore knee and looked around. An old man was standing there on his doorstep, bucket of vegetable scraps in his hand. He pointed without saying anything. Rawk nodded his thanks and left with the same lack of words. In just a few seconds he slowed to a limping walk as the alley opened out slightly at a dead-end. The buildings may have stepped back, but they loomed over the little square like priests of Path around a Caramas Altar. On the far side was a stable. A body was lying twisted and bloody on the hay-strewn cobbles just outside the open door. A crow was standing nearby, with ruffled feathers and a highly offended expression. The bird squawked indignantly and hopped backwards as another body sailed out the loft window and landed with a soft, wet, thud.

  Rawk swallowed. “That doesn’t look good.”

  The crow squawked again.

  There was movement in the higher of the two doors, a shadow slinking through the shadows, but nothing emerged and it was several minutes before anything else happened. Then, a creature came out on ground level, scraping its dull grey scales on the doorframe, sauntering into the sunlight as if it was Prince Weaver entering a throne room. It was huge, twice as tall as a draught horse, with six tree-trunk legs, a long tail and a snout like a battering ram. A battering ram with bloody fangs. And there was a bloody spike on the end of its tail. The creature shook its head, sending a spray of glistening, red droplets across the dirty plaster of the walls. It blinked slowly up at the sun, then spun about and went back the way it had come.

  Rawk started to breathe again. He almost gagged on the smell of death.

  “Where’s the exot?”

  Two Heroes were standing not far away, swords drawn, faces flushed from running.

  “You haven’t killed it already, have you?”

  Rawk shook his head. “It’s in there, but I’d take a minute to think if I was...”

  The two men were racing each other towards the stables, wordless battle cries letting every creature in the neighborhood know they were there, though only one creature really mattered at the moment. A second later, the first of the men reappeared, flying through the air and screaming. He hit the cobbles and rolled. He sat up, apparently all right, but made no effort to go back and help his friend. By the sound of the screaming, the friend needed all the help he could get.

  Rawk took a step forward, cursing under his breath, but any thought of a rescue mission was cut short when the sounds suddenly stopped. He shifted his grip on Kaj. He shifted his feet and turned to look at the man on the ground. “What happened?”

  The man winced, holding his ribs. “Its tail.”

  Rawk nodded and moved carefully forward.

  Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A rope with a hook on the end, for taking supplies up to the loft, was hanging down into a shaft of bright sunlight that lanced down through a skylight. There were two dead horses in the shadows, both of them half eaten. Flies, dancing through golden dust motes, were creating a background hum that drowned out the sounds of the city. The dead Hero was lying on a pile of hay as if he was just having a bit of a rest while the exot sniffed him, obviously choosing the leanest cut. Rawk had seen men being eaten before. You would think it really couldn’t be any worse than seeing any animal eaten raw, but it was. It was considerably worse. He cleared his throat. He didn’t do it to get the creature’s attention, but it was always going to.

  Cold green eyes turned towards him. The tail flickered, brushing the hay on the floor, sending up storms of dust. It was mesmerizing. Rawk blinked. Kaj seemed very heavy.

  “How do I end up in situations like this?” He’d hired Heroes to stand on corners so he didn’t have to run around saving the city. And yet here he was. Two Heroes had even arrived before him, sort of, and done nothing at all that helped him stay outside. All they’d done was force him into the stables sooner than he wanted, before he’d had a chance to think. He couldn’t be too hard on them though, because a few months ago he’d have been the one doing the rushing, bad knee and all.

  Rawk took a chance and looked around again.

  He turned back in time to jump the scything tail and slash with his sword. The blade encountered flesh but didn’t do anything interesting. He raced towards the other side of the room. As he went, he grabbed the hook hanging from above and swung it as hard as possible. It sailed harmlessly past the exot as it stalked along behind.

  Rawk turned, sword ready, and wished he were somewhere else. He licked his lips, tastin
g hay-dust. A couple of yards away, the creature gathered itself to attack. Rawk felt his own muscles tensing as well. He wanted to look around, to see where he could run, but he knew there was no helpful exit nearby.

  The hook, swinging back the other direction, struck the exot on the shoulder. The creature spun around violently to meet the unexpected attack. And Rawk darted forward. He stabbed up under one of the front legs, a hard, teeth-clenching thrust, grunting with the effort. He knew that if he failed to kill it quickly he would probably die himself.

  The exot screeched and bawled as blood gushed forth. It turned and the huge head slammed into Rawk, knocking him across the room where he struck the rough timber wall hard enough to shake a saddle down from its hook. He fell into a pile of hay, sending out a golden explosion, gasping for air and coughing all at once. His ribs ached but, if only he would get some air into his lungs, he would live. That was more than could be said for the exot. The creature was on the floor, writhing in the final throes of life, scraping straw aside with its weakening limbs. It screamed like a wagon full of stuck pigs.

  Taking a deep breath and wincing at the pain, Rawk carefully levered himself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall. His head pounded. “That went just like I planned,” he said, watching the hook as it swung in ever decreasing arcs over the top of the exot. Kaj was lying on the floor not far away as well but the sword wasn’t going to go any where for the moment. Rawk was still sitting, and starting to get the hang of it, when he heard someone outside the door. He looked up in time to see a dwarf with one of the camera things. The pop and the flash of light came, as usual, and when Rawk could see again, blinking away tears, he was on his own.

  “Just leave me alone,” he shouted.

  Waydin carefully poked his head through the door. “Leave you alone? What are you talking about?”

  Rawk grunted. “You’d starve if you were a Hero, Waydin. You always arrive five minutes too late.”