Helga the Conqueror stepped out from the smoky darkness of her great hall into the afternoon sun. The Marches were always hot in the day, even in the spring. In the wide space before her, hundreds of farrow were drilling under the stern guidance of her primary chieftain, Grulla.
Grulla walked toward her, leaving behind a group of slaughterhousers attacking tall wooden poles with their cleavers. “Warlord,” the older farrow said as she approached, dipping her head.
Helga nodded. “Grulla, tell me, how are our troops faring?” Grulla crinkled her snout. “I’ve got the brigands shooting straight but they still can’t switch between pig iron and club on the charge. Half the slaughterhousers think their pole cleavers are close combat weapons. And our razorback crews couldn’t hit the broad side of a mountain.”
Helga smiled and clapped Grulla on the shoulder. “Sounds like progress to me,” she said.
Grulla snorted. “If you say so. There is still much work to do.”
“And you’re the best one for it.” Helga’s tone became more serious as she added, “I must speak with you.”
Grulla cocked her head. “Is something wrong?” She had been Helga’s battle master for years, the only of her chiefs to swear allegiance to her without requiring a show of force. Helga trusted her.
“Yes,” Helga said. She began walking toward the main group of huts, passing the slaughterhousers. Those nearest stopped drilling and stared. Helga was used to this; most of her farrow regarded her with almost worshipful reverance. She had earned their respect through many long and bloody fights as she consolidated the tribes in the area.
“Back to it, you wallowing bastards!” Grulla barked. Alarmed squeals erupted from the idle farrow as they immediately surged to attack their wooden targets.
Helga and Grulla continued in silence, making their way through the orderly rows of farrow huts. They heard the sound of gunfire as they moved through the camp. Beyond the main encampment, farrow brigands were practicing with their pig irons, firing into a berm of piled earth. “Lord Carver is coming,” Helga said without preamble, feeling a surge of dread at the powerful farrow’s name. “His forces were spotted entering our territory this morning.” Grulla’s hand instinctively fell to the haft of the axe at her belt. “How many?” she said, fairly growling the words. “If he wants a fight, we’ll give him one.”
“That’s the thing,” Helga said. “He sent word he wants to talk.”
Grulla shook her head. “He thinks you will simply step aside. You can’t possibly trust him. He has conquered or killed every warlord and chief who stood against him. Even Midas now serves him.”
It was true that Carver’s subjugation of Midas was troubling. She would have expected the proud and stubborn bone grinder to fight to the death before submitting to that indignity.
Helga grunted. “I will hear him. It could be a ruse, of course. If we must fight, we will. Carver will bleed if he seeks to take my lands.”
“Good,” Grulla said.
Helga smiled, but a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew the strength of her forces, which she would gladly pit against that of any other warlord in the Marches. But Carver was something different. It was not simply his army that Helga feared—it was also his command of the terrible monstrosities provided for him by his pet human doctor and inventor. She had heard tales of their unnatural ferocity and speed.
“Come,” Helga said. “We must prepare to meet our honored guest.”
81
Lord Carver was perplexed. The feeling made him want to take Hand of God from his back and kill something. Instead he turned to the thickly muscled bone grinder warlock behind him. “This is her encampment?” They had moved forward from the main army and closer to the walls, along with a small honor guard of warbeasts and brigands. “Yes,” Midas said. “The largest of several.”
“This does not look like a farrow compound,” Carver said. “It looks almost . . . human.”
Midas nodded. “Helga has strange ideas about how warriors should be trained.”
“Trained? Farrow are not trained; we are born warriors, and the stronger rise above the weaker. Still, she has managed to seize a large expanse.”
“And swiftly,” Midas said. “She has defeated many.” It was true. Helga had proven herself a mighty warrior, subjugating many of the male chieftains in the area and forcing them to serve her, then absorbing their tribes into her own. “Her lands are the equal of those once held by several of your greatest warlords.”
“Perhaps her strange ways have some merit,” Carver said grudgingly.
“I have heard her farrow are both disciplined and precise. Though it likely takes a lot of bother, more than I would be willing to put up with.”
Carver crinkled his snout. He’d never liked that human word, discipline. He’d heard Arkadius say it when speaking of the farrow, as something they lacked. He looked down at the encampment in the valley below them. The orderly rows of buildings, the palisade wall and deep ditch encircling the camp, the neat lines of stakes within and just behind the ditch—all spoke of this discipline. He quickly assessed how difficult it would be to attack such a camp. Even his road hogs would have trouble negotiating that ditch, and the narrow entry would bottleneck his forces, largely negating the advantage of his superior numbers. Looking back to the lines of his gathered army, Carver saw a number of his chiefs eyeing the encampment with troubled expressions.
Midas said, “If she sees this as an invasion and attacks . . .” Carver snorted. “Ridiculous,” he said. “She is ambitious, not stupid. She will speak with me.”
Midas drew a deep breath, and Carver sensed he wanted to say more. Midas was not used to accepting orders, but he held his tongue.
“I seek a mate, and there are few females worthy to bear my progeny,” Carver said. “I have chosen her above all others for this honor.”
“She may see it differently.”
“Impossible,” Carver said. “But if she would rather fight than accept my offer, I will crush any champions she sends against me.”
Midas did not look convinced. “As you say, but she may not trouble with formalities. She may just send her army. Or shoot you from here.”
The mere thought of such an affront sent white-hot bolts of rage coursing through Carver. He would annihilate any forces sent to discourage him. If Midas could not stomach a fight, Carver would slaughter them without his help. “That’s a good sign,” Midas said, pointing toward the encampment.
A small group of farrow had come forth and was heading in their direction. A tall and stout female, clad in steel plate and gripping a great spear and shield, walked at the fore. This could only be Helga. Armed for war, she cut an impressive figure. Beside her walked another heavily armored female chief, a subordinate carrying a massive axe. A pair of razor boars advanced ahead of Helga, obviously leashed to her mental command. Following these were slaughterhousers moving in three ranks of ten, their poleaxes held high, their movements synchronized.
Again, Carver was struck by how human it all looked— the order, the discipline. He looked back at his own troops milling about or lounging in the shade of the few withered trees they could find. They seemed almost lazy in comparison to Helga’s slaughterhousers.
He saw that Helga’s farrow were headed for an open area, clear of boulders and other obstructions. It was not lost on him that with their longer weapons her slaughterhousers would have the advantage on that field.
So she was a thinker and a warrior. He was intrigued.
Minutes before they left the encampment Grulla had turned to Helga, deadly serious, and said, “We should just kill him.”
“if she WOuLd rather fight
thaN aCCept my Offer, i
WiLL Crush aNy ChampiONs
she seNds agaiNst me .”
Helga had considered this, but even with the hundreds of farrow she commanded and an entire pack of razor boars, she felt uncertain about facing Carver in open combat. Moreover, while his army looked only loosely ordered, their numbers were substantial. Even were she to perform a lightning strike on his immediate escort, she did think she could kill him before being encircled in turn. His resilience was the stuff of legends. “No,” she had told Grulla. “We’ll see what he wants.” Outside the shelter of her encampment she felt vulnerable. As they drew closer, she saw Carver’s war hogs more clearly and was both repulsed by their patchwork grotesquery and intrigued by their obvious strength. The smaller gun boars were also impressive, and she wondered how accurate their cannons might be.
Carver himself was a towering figure clad in heavy armor with spiked pauldrons and wielding a gargantuan two- handed blade, very much like a great cleaver, across his back. His right hand rested on a double-barreled scattergun holstered low on his hip. Next to Carver and slightly behind him was another large armored farrow with a saw-edged axe and a pair of large knives tucked through his belt. A huge cauldron filled with bones, meat, and other totems was chained to his back. In his own way, Midas was as fearsome-looking as his master.
“Lord Carver,” she called out. “I welcome you to my lands.” As Carver moved toward her, she glanced at Grulla, nodded, and sent a mental command to her razor boars to stay where they were. Then she and Grulla walked out to meet the great warlord.
“Helga the Conqueror,” Carver said. “I have heard much of your exploits.”
“I am flattered,” she said. He nodded imperiously. “But what brings you to my lands?”
“I have come to bestow upon you a great honor.”
Helga exchanged a wary look with Grulla and said, “Please, tell me, what is this boon?”
“I require a strong female to bear my young, and there is none stronger than you. You will help me forge my dynasty,” Carver said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of generosity.
She stared at him, mouth open, as her mind raced. She found herself at a loss for words. “Again, you flatter me. This is indeed a . . . surprising offer,” she said finally. “However, a pregnancy and the resulting time needed to raise young would put me in a vulnerable position. It would weaken my standing among my chiefs.”
Carver nodded. “Underlings are a duplicitous lot.” He glanced back at Midas, who glowered in return.
Helga continued, “I am not averse to considering the idea, though, given certain assurances.” She couldn’t deny that mating with Carver would have its advantages. She had not sought a mate because of the inherent problems involved, problems male chiefs and warlords could ignore. But if she could somehow maintain her standing and also gain access to the powerful hybrid warbeasts created by Carver’s pet arcanist, a more lasting alliance could be extremely advantageous. “What assurances?” Carver said, plainly taken aback that she hadn’t immediately accepted the proposal.
“First, I would want access to the creatures your human, Arkadius, provides to you,” she said.
“That could be arranged,” Carver conceded.
“Second,” she continued, “tradition demands that a suitor prove himself in battle. I respect the old ways.”
“What are you doing?” Grulla hissed from behind her, but Helga ignored the battle master. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“The old ways?” Carver said, surprised. “After my countless conquests, you would have me prove myself in battle?” “I would see your might firsthand,” Helga said. “You say I am worthy to bear your young; I only wish to determine if you are worthy. I have refused all others. I must know you are not just strong and skilled but are also one who can command well and seize spoils. Only a real battle can show this, not a simple one-on-one duel.”
“Very well,” Carver said, considering. “I know where there are human villages not far from here, belonging to a tribe that has defended their lands from others in the past.” Helga’s eyes narrowed; she knew the settlements he meant. They belonged to a tribe that served the blackclads. She had considered adding those lands to hers in the past but had held back to avoid drawing the ire of the druids. If the blame for the attack were to fall on Carver instead, this could be her opportunity to gain the territory without direct reprisal. “Perhaps,” she allowed.
Carver nodded decisively. “I will take but a fraction of my army, to prove my strength. You will accompany me and I will show you why I am the only suitor worthy of you.”
In truth Helga had no doubt Carver was a mighty warrior— perhaps the greatest farrow warrior who had ever lived— but she required some time to gauge the merits of what was proposed. Nonetheless, she could not deny that she found the prospect of seeing Carver’s war hogs in action quite compelling.
83
The two chiefs marched with their warriors toward the closest of the human settlements, some ten miles from her main encampment. Helga was outfitted for battle and carried the long hunting spear that had belonged to her father, a powerful chief in his own right. She also carried a shield fitted with a short cannon modified from one used by razorback crews.
Carver had brought only Midas, a small number of warbeasts, and his immediate escort. Helga’s own force consisted of thirty slaughterhousers and twenty brigands, all marching in orderly ranks behind her and Grulla. Three razor boars moved ahead of her, controlled by her mental command. Her largest warbeast, the hulking bipedal great boar Snar, walked beside her. Her reason for bringing this large a force was simple. Carver had a reputation for being temperamental, and if for some reason he turned on her, she needed numbers to counter his aggression—not that she liked her odds in that scenario.
“Look at them,” Grulla said to Helga, pointing at the brigands milling around Carver and Midas. “How has he conquered so many with fighters like that?”
Carver didn’t seem to mind that his troops were more a mob than a trained fighting force. Helga replied, “Simple. He has numbers, considerable personal strength, and the monstrosities made for him by his human.”
“You give him too much credit. He’s a thug. A strong one, surely, but still a thug.”
“We cannot underestimate Carver,” Helga said. “He has shown enough cunning and strength to conquer every warlord in his path. And his warriors bear the scars of many battles. Individually, they know how to fight.”
Grulla grunted and shook her head. “Maybe, but I—” Her point was cut short by the twang of crossbows discharging their bolts and the resulting howls of pain from the farrow struck by the missiles. They had entered an area strewn with large boulders and outcroppings of stone—a perfect place to spring an ambush. The bolts had struck Carver’s band, some fifty yards ahead of Helga’s force. “Slaughterhousers! Ring!” Helga shouted. Her warriors moved swiftly to form a circle around her and her beasts, a dense thicket of projecting blades. Helga summoned her will, and bright yellow runes flared around her outstretched hand. The spell washed over the slaughterhousers, shrouding them in arcane wards. More crossbow bolts came whizzing from the cover of nearby boulders but were turned aside.
“Brigands! Two lines! Covering fire!” Grulla’s commands rang out loud and clear. The brigands split into two
groups to flank the ring of slaughterhousers, then began firing their pig irons at the shadowy figures hiding in the rocky terrain.
A savage cry rose over the din of gunfire as a group of human warriors clad in animal skins and sand-colored clothing and armor charged Carver and his brigands. They wielded heavy cleft-bladed spears, and their armor bore stylized patterns and whorls. Helga counted twenty individuals. Carver surged forward with his war hogs in the middle of his farrow mob. He cut down two humans with his mammoth blade within seconds of first contact and blasted two more with his scattergun. His war hogs trampled, crushed, and flung aside any humans foolish enough to close, while his gun boars fired on those at the fringes.
A crossbow bolt thudded into Helga’s shield, pulling her attention away from Carver. She glanced around and saw more human warriors emerging from cover, their crossbows bearing heavy blades on the stocks. Helga looked ahead and saw Carver’s small force had nearly overwhelmed the humans they were fighting. The arrogant warlord was showing her his skill in battle—well, she would show him why she was master of these lands.
“Move aside!” Helga shouted. The slaughterhousers parted swiftly, allowing her and the great boar Snar to push through, followed closely by her razor boars. The humans were closing in on both sides.
“Grulla!” Helga called out. “I have the left flank!” The battle master gave a stiff nod and began shouting orders to the farrow around her.
Helga reached out to her beasts. She felt their animal fury coursing along her connection with them, and it filled her with a heady battle lust. The humans were coming on fast, and Helga urged her razor boars to charge. The two-hundred-pound beasts slammed into their foes, tusks ripping gaping wounds and splattering blood in wide crimson arcs.
She sent Snar next and ran close behind him, spear readied at her right shoulder. The great boar barreled into a group of four humans, its armored fists rising and falling to smash the weak, pale creatures into gory paste.
Helga ran out from behind Snar toward another group of humans firing their crossbows at her razor boars. They were backing up as they fired, clearly looking to retreat. She charged, summoning her magic to quicken her gait, and was on them before they realized the danger. She lunged with her spear to catch the first human in the throat, nearly taking his head off.
The remaining three moved apart in an attempt to flank her. She took a step back, then lunged to her left and slammed
her shield into the nearest one. The female staggered backward, and Helga’s spear followed, skewering her. Helga yanked her weapon free, whirled around, and flipped the weapon up into an overhand grip, better for close combat. She lashed out at her next opponent with a heavy hoof, smashing his knee. He went down, and she