The Maker of Warriors: The second book in the Power of Pain series

By ACM Prior

The Maker of Warriors is melding steel with flesh to create peerless fighters.  

The wrestler, Bolan, seeks revenge on the creator of the giant who killed his friend.  He needs the help of the magician, Jebbin.  Only the Thieves Guild have the network to find Jebbin.  Unfortunately, they have also sworn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Langdown Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838036140

ACM Prior

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The Maker of Warriors

The Maker of Warriors

The Maker of Warriors

The second book in the Power of Pain series

ACM Prior

Langdown Press

Contents

A long-sought meeting

Recruits

Standard Algolian Welcome

Dibaan

Stokenbrone Pier.

Rukh

Mard

Eyrie

Crackstone Rib

Epilogue

About The Author

Copyright © 2020 by ACM Prior

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2020

A long-sought meeting

Dadacombe was a dangerous town, yet Bolan was sitting right in the middle of it. Dishevelled and exhausted, the thickset wrestler slumped like a wreck against the stone of the central well, eyes sweeping backwards and forwards over the afternoon’s noisy hagglers thronging the square. Not that most of the inhabitants of the market town would have considered their home dangerous. They knew the hazards of fire, theft and pestilence, but these were things that happened to someone else and did little more than light the fires of gossip and spice conversations with a frisson of excitement. Genuine dangers were reserved for the barbarians of the outlying regions who should be inured to such events, or perhaps for those dwelling close to Tachenland, where raiding parties wormed over the border with axe and firebrand. Or for Bolan when he was in Dadacombe.

The right number of gold ryals clunking into a bag, a nod, the writing of a name and the Guild of Assassins could make anywhere dangerous. Bolan had nothing particular against the Assassins’ Guild; they had their work to do and they did it with commendable efficiency but when the name was Bolan and the number of coins sufficient to suck all the lustre from the Thieves’ Guild treasury, then the word dangerous scarcely summed up his position.

Bolan had become accidentally embroiled in the political machinations of the Thieves’ Guild and the local branch had paid the Dadacombe assassins a wheelbarrow of gold to get rid of him. That they had not succeeded before he fled Dadacombe had been down to the merest chance. Bolan ticked off points on his left hand.

Have to find Jebbin the mage. Only Thieves’ Guild has the network to do this. He nodded but then looked at his right hand.

But same thieves have been charged by Guild Master Guthreg to kill Jebbin when they do find him. And the thieves paid the assassins to kill me. May have given them some reason, so they’re unlikely to delay in reminding assassins of their pledge.

Bolan scanned the crowds, then spoke to his left hand again.

But have to find Jebbin. Who else could do that but the Thieves’ Guild?

He mashed his hands together and ground his knuckles into his eyes before jerking upright and glaring round at the townsfolk, who were staying well clear.

Disguise myself! He glanced down at his own short but massive frame that would challenge the talents of a veritable expert and sighed.

Any action is usually better than none, he muttered to himself, and one should be able to rely upon a thief for greed.

His decision made, Bolan heaved himself away from the well and shambled off towards the Guild House. At least he knew where it was. He tried to forget that he had helped set it ablaze the last time he had been in Dadacombe. Perhaps no-one else would remember either. Even to him, that contingency seemed remote.

Bolan’s face was haggard; red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes heavy-lidded as though every second of sleep had been hard-won from some vigilant demon. Beneath the puffy lids, the gleam of his eyes was febrile with determination. After a single glance, most townsfolk gave Bolan a wide berth, fearing unpredictable behaviour from so dissolute a character. Bolan heard an overdressed woman warning her son of the perils of drink before noon as she pointed him out. He gave her a grin so ghastly that she scuttled away, wreathed in complaints, one flabby arm weighing down protectively on her child.

The two door wardens of the Guild House took little notice of the broad figure lumbering past them until, with a sudden bound, he was right between them.

Hal..unmph, said the first as his head cracked against the doorjamb and he slid to the ground as smoothly as though his backbone had been removed.

The second guard said nothing as one of Bolan’s great hands was about her neck and the other crushingly pinned her hand where it had just managed to drag a dagger from its sheath.

Want to see Guthreg. Lead the way.

Not here....for months, croaked the woman as her weapon tinkled uselessly to the step.

Ansin then.

Dead.

Enough chatter on the doorstep. Whoever’s in charge.

Shortly afterwards, Bolan found himself outside a door, his neck prickling with awareness of other forms that shadowed them up the stairs and blocked his escape with drawn blades. Querulous eyes regarded him from a slit in the door. He gave the woman’s neck a preliminary rattle to bolster his confidence but before he could take any action, he heard a bored voice saying;

Open up and tell them to come in then, Darret.

The door opened and Bolan slid through warily, his purple-faced victim clenched thoughtlessly by his side. Ignoring the superannuated Darret who had reversed nervously to quiver against the wall, Bolan frowned at the relaxed thief captain wearily skimming through papers at his desk. He seemed more harassed by the cares of office than the incursion of an alien into the Guild House. Thin, pale and balding, he looked more like an ageing scribe than captain of the thieves of four towns. Toomsly glanced up.

You brainless oaf, Darret! he squeaked, leaping to his feet and knocking his chair over. When you say Linka has come in with someone, I expect her to be in charge, you incompetent bungler. Oh, by the Great God Rashen-Akru, it’s Bolan, you idiots.

The same, nodded Bolan pleasantly, relieved that Toomsly was not quite so blasé about his arrival as it had appeared.

I had nothing to do with it. You must believe me, it was before I took over, it wasn’t me. I can’t call them off, wish I could, pleaded Toomsly. He made a visible effort to pull himself together after a slantwise glance at the astonished faces of his subordinates. I advise you to leave immediately. You may have forgotten that the assassins are mustered against you here!

Have forgotten neither that, nor who paid them.

Toomsly muttered darkly, then squinted up at Bolan, You come back here for revenge? Why should we not kill you where you stand?

Bolan smiled and walked forward to the desk while Toomsly retreated a similar distance. Reaching down with his free hand he pulled out a leather purse and shook it, spilling a mound of golden coins to glitter alluringly in the lamplight. The sparkle found an eager echo in Toomsly’s eyes.

Ah. And so you seek to make your peace with us, prattled the captain of thieves, making an almost invisible signal to someone standing behind Bolan. Bygones a mirage of the past. A wise decision we are happy to accept with all honour.

Too speedily for even Toomsly’s quick eyes to follow, Bolan snatched a heavy five ryal piece from the pile and slung it at the thief sneaking up behind him with a drawn dagger. The man went down in a clatter with the coin wedged in his forehead.

And you are such a watchword for honour? suggested Bolan grimly.

Toomsly looked down at his sorry minion, now clutching a blood-smeared face and moaning quietly. I could have you shot full of darts at any time, you do realise? he said peevishly.

Perhaps, but then you won’t get the greater part of the money.

What money? Why are you really here? asked Toomsly softly. And you could let Linka go, he indicated the semiconscious door-ward with an irritated wave of his fingers.

Oh. Yes, said Bolan, who had forgotten her. Just wanted your attention. It was undoubtedly true that Bolan had the undivided attention of all the thieves in the room with the exception of the gasping door-ward who had temporarily lost all interest in anything but breathing. Want to purchase information from you. When I have it, I’ll leave Dadacombe with one of your men and tell him where to find two more bags like that one.

Toomsly’s eyes narrowed as he considered Bolan’s simple plan. He smiled slyly and asked, And what do you wish to know?

I want to find... Bolan paused, inspecting the disparate group of outcasts ranged behind him, all leaning forward keenly, and rapidly concluded that there was no hope of this rabble mounting any wide-scale operation to find Jebbin, ...to find Guild Master Guthreg, he amended.

Hah! Indeed. I cannot possibly reveal... Toomsly stopped and considered the matter afresh. He thought over all the problems his Guild Master had heaped upon him: the bribes required to keep certain matters quiet, the tolls and levies, the humiliations... So Bolan wanted to kill Guthreg, did he? He might just succeed too and how sweet that would be. He might look like a ruined derelict but Linka was proof enough of the speed and strength of his hand. And even if the puissant Bolan failed then Toomsly would be rid of him and surely none could trace anything back to him, a loyal and blameless thief captain. An expression of weary kindness almost concealed his guile.

Well now, why did you not just ask? I’m only too happy to put two old friends back in touch. Our beloved master will be staying at his manse near Nommam, halfway to Merrin from here. Judging from the funds he lifts from us, it will be the most luxurious place from here to Kathos.

At that moment, there was a commotion down the packed stairway as a girl elbowed her way through, demonstrating a malicious dexterity in the precise applications of her jabs and calling out that she had news. Wincing thieves ushered her into Toomsly’s office before she could further exercise her elbows. Once before Toomsly, she paused to sweep unruly dark hair from her face before delivering her news.

I think Kovar lurks in the street.

You think?

Yes, but he’s in disguise and peddling onions from a barrow.

Were Kovar not disguised, it would not be Kovar the assassin. Bolan, of course. Do they miss nothing? We must spirit him away or lose our money!

Shall I lead Bolan out the back way?

No. If Kovar watches the front, more will watch the back. At least we know where Kovar is. Tell me, he darted a brusque question at the girl, were the onions reasonably priced?

Um, yes, I think so, she replied, flummoxed by the apparent irrelevance.

Excellent. Buy them all and say that I would speak with the purveyor of such excellent vegetables.

But Toomsly, he’s not...

Kovar, not being as stupid as you, will be grateful that we maintain his cover and he, at least, will understand that we have news for him. He will think we have Bolan detained, whereas in fact I will merely reveal that he is in Dadacombe; a nice fraternal gesture from one guild to another. Hurry now. While Kovar is in here, take Bolan out through the front, ward him well and don’t forget the rest of the money. Goodbye Bolan and, ah, good luck.

You don’t know where Jebbin is, do you? asked Bolan over his shoulder as he was pulled away by eager hands.

We had agents pursuing that wretched magician from here to Lana Fair on Guthreg’s whimsy, where naturally they lost him. We have heard no more of him. Or most of them, truth to tell.

Yes, it’s just that he did come back to Dorning and...

Back in this region? yelped Toomsly. How could we not know? How..? He turned suddenly and bent a withering glare on a wilting man to his right. Mathud? he grated.

Er, well, if we find him too often, we’re going to run out of colleagues. Everything seemed to have died down, so, well, you know.

Toomsly sank back into his seat, resting his face in his hands. Sitting up, he dismissed those remaining in his office with a vexed gesticulation and dragged a sheaf of papers across his desk with a sigh. Staring at them blankly while he waited for Kovar the assassin, a grin suddenly welled up from inside him as he imagined some of the horribly painful things Bolan could do to Guthreg - or vice versa – while he played with gold.

*   *   *

The weight of the black-armoured knight bothered the shaggy beast beneath him not a bit. A slow animal but tireless and immensely powerful, she endured the blows and curses of her master with the same stolid equanimity that had faced the winds of the Belmenian plains that etched rocks, broiling sun and the endless road. The giant knight entirely lacked her stoicism and was at that moment complaining vigorously to a priest who rode beside him. The priest’s cowl was thrown back to reveal pale hair cropped close, a hooked nose and thin lips. He looked so comparatively frail it seemed he must bend before the gale of the knight’s wrath. But there was steel beneath the slim frame and the priest waved a negligent hand.

Desist, Falson, what is one day’s ride further? If needs must, I can conjure holy food to fill that belly of yours. See yonder, a lone traveller in this forsaken place: ah, who would have thought Belmenia would peter out in such a scrag-end? You might divert yourself by adding him to the cause of the Great One. Matters will improve when we break through the Algolian border and preach the word in new lands.

Faugh! Another of your cursed peasants, Schade. Whether in Algolia, Belmenia or anywhere from here to Kathos, they’re always the same; covered in filth, reeking of the dunghill and with no more idea of fighting than swatting chickens with a broom! I want none of him - unless his blood would make a reasonable sacrifice, fit to instruct this rabble. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the lines of dejected, dusty folk who walked behind him, armed for the most part with fagging hooks and cudgels. A superficial homogeneity was provided by the dark cloaks they all wore.

Add him to our merry band or sacrifice him if you must. Dirty he may be but so are you and I and, if you care to look more closely, those boots are good leather and his clothes are of finer weave than yours. I doubt not you’ll find heavy coins tucked beneath that tunic.

Jebbin stopped when Falson reined his huge mount to a halt directly across his path. His mind slipped into the familiar mage’s concentration, where it seemed as though he stood at a door between the world of clay and the scintillant web of power with its glowing droplets. He rolled a ball of sear between his fingers. Sear; the powder that stung like a scorpion, set nerves afire and blazed into a lightning of pain. The pain that powered every spell of a magician. Jebbin looked up at the knight.

Bow down and worship the one true god! boomed the warrior.

Jebbin stared up at the bulk of the horseman looming over him. After a moment’s consideration, he brought his hands up piously, bringing the sear closer to his lips, slid to his knees and affirmed softly, I humbly worship the one great god.

Falson was clearly taken aback by this ready compliance that somehow still denied his mastery. A note of cumbersome cunning crept into his voice, Do you not know his name, slave?

Indeed I do, replied Jebbin mildly, but I choose not to profane it now. I enjoin you to behave likewise - it would not do to blaspheme with a chance mispronunciation.

His name! Falson cut in darkly.

Besides, continued Jebbin smoothly, one god may have many names and I should dislike a misunderstanding.

The NAME! roared the infuriated fighter, unclipping his morning-star and whirling the spiked ball before Jebbin’s face.

Enough! cried Jebbin, rising to his feet. He raised his quarterstaff and declaimed firmly, All lawful gods are but extensions of the one great god to whom I offered homage. Evil gods are but manifestations of the evil that is within mankind and to no such deity will I bow. If you have made the mistake of offering devotion in such a direction, I earnestly entreat you to recant as soon as may be. His speech delivered, Jebbin turned smartly on his heel and stalked away from the flabbergasted knight.

Halt! spluttered the warrior, You are condemned. Squeak your last puling prayer to whatever pathetic god you wish. Spinning the morning-star into a blurred glitter, he savagely dug spurs to the hair-matted sides of his placid mount until she was provoked to lumber after Jebbin.

Unhurriedly, Jebbin thrust the ball of sear into his nose. For a moment, he almost savoured the pain that thrashed his nose to agonised fire. Then he turned, swinging his free arm in a horizontal arc and spitting the pain into a spell. The horse pecked heavily, catapulting the rider from her back to crash noisily into the sandy soil. Jebbin resumed his course as though unconcerned. Echoing his mien, the shaggy beast snuffed round vaguely and began sipping leaves from a thorny shrub. Between them, Falson struggled to his feet, bruised and humiliated before the priest and his train. Lust for murder rose from him like a fetor.

You will not ridicule me and live. You would have died swiftly but now you’ll beg to do so! Falson was about to pursue the retreating mage when he was restrained by Schade’s lean hand upon his shoulder.

Such strength were better employed with us. I will excise his mind, then you may have him as your slave. Your time will come.

The priest turned towards Jebbin and began a spell of his own. Unsure what he faced, Jebbin took sear and threw an Argen wall between them. A dull globe the colour of dead flesh sped from the priest, impacted on the wall and burst like a rotten apple. Schade shrugged and pushed his staff behind his saddle. He drew a small wand from his robe and started to draw a rune with it. Jebbin took in the naked greed in Falson’s face and threw power into his own defensive spell to produce the full Ulargen wall. The priest softly spoke a word of Command. The rune bulged outward, then vanished with a whisper of flashing blue like the after-image of lightning. The wind stopped and the word rang like a blow on an anvil. The air twisted between them and the mighty Ulargen wall was shredded into snippets of sound and flickers of light. Jebbin ceased to breathe and a deathly stillness crept about him as the blood froze in his veins. Then the spell disappeared into the little sword symbol about his neck, leaving him staggering and gasping.

Jebbin straightened up to face the priest and their eyes met. That’s a vile artefact you hold – but I have my own.

The priest backed his mount, sweating and shaking his head. He is beyond my power to redeem. Slay him swiftly lest he summon doom on us all! he shouted, so releasing Falson who leapt forward with a satisfied grunt. The priest barked another order and his acolytes, who had thus far watched the altercation with blank indifference, began a sullen chant which rapidly fed upon itself, developing into a harsh stridor that itched against Jebbin’s concentration. Raising their weaponry, the red-eyed followers swayed forward.

Then the Gesgarian stasis spell hit Schade. Locked in an unbalanced position, the priest could make no move to control his horse and fell badly with the noise of breaking bone. Schade gave a thin wail that was lost in the rising clamour issuing from his retinue.

However, the spell gave Falson the time he needed to reach Jebbin and the warrior swept the morning-star round in a pounding stroke that promised to decapitate the mage. Jebbin had just time to bang his foot down and create the Staffstamp spell at the fourth harmonic, again producing the almost impregnable Ulargen barrier. The spiked ball struck solid air with shattering force and wobbled downward impotently. Jebbin swung his staff and cracked Falson a whack on his helmet, barely denting it. Sudden fire shot from all the cracks in the armour and Falson collapsed without a sound.

The priest was struggling to his feet, sickening pain reducing his mouth and eyes to holes punched in porridge. He held his right arm to his chest, the hand hanging limp. When he faced Jebbin, Schade’s eyes blossomed with hatred. The priest forced himself erect and lifted the wand once more, unbalanced and black against the brilliant sky. He began awkwardly sketching a second rune with the wand in his left hand.

Weakened by too many spells, Jebbin faltered. The pounding chant was grating at his concentration, the mighty web shimmering out of focus, vibrating from his control. Sear pain hammered through his face and refused to be shaped. Helplessly, he watched Schade’s rune appearing through the craquelure of pain. With a massive effort, he sank lower into his consciousness, the world spinning into nothingness, even the insidious chant muted. He grasped a bead of power and forced it to his will.

He was saved by the speed of the Gesgarian blast spell. Surfacing like a swimmer after a deep dive, he sent all his pain smashing into the priest. Schade hunched over, eyes sparking detestation at Jebbin, before toppling onto the ground, his final rune uncompleted, shards of power dissipating on the breeze like a sigh. But by then, his followers were nearly upon Jebbin. The sorcerer stared fuzzily into a wave of flapping cloaks, sweat-stinking bodies and raised weapons. Almost Numbed by the amount of sear he had taken, he whirled his staff aloft, crying,

No more! Enough of this. Make your own choices, go free and in peace.

Almost as one, and much to Jebbin’s relief, the acolytes halted, hands falling to their sides, many dropping their pathetic weapons. Without the priest and the knight compelling them, they stood vacantly, silent in the ruin of their faltered chant. Nothing moved except where the wind ruffled cloaks and brushed strands of hair from blank faces. Then one man sat heavily on the ground and seemed to free them all. Some were like men awakened in a strange place and looked on one another in bemused amazement; some fell to talking, demanding answers where none were known; others glared at Jebbin and gripped their bludgeons more tightly, or crept away from the scene, snarling.

Near collapse himself, Jebbin ignored them all and walked to the place where Schade’s body sprawled awkwardly. He could now see that the wand was a carved bone. Its polished surface reflected the sun in pure gleams that hid eldritch carvings and made of it a thing of beauty. The thought of how it could boost his own spells forced its way into his mind but Jebbin was not deceived. There was need for a final spell. Summoning all his resolve, he steeled himself to take more sear. The jarring chant now ceased, he managed to cast the Gesgarian heat spell at the fourth harmonic and a thin red line sliced downward to play over the bone wand. After a while the wand exploded dully and left nothing more than a shrinking yellow trace on the ground.

Jebbin tried to force the grey numbness from his head with the heels of his hands. It didn’t work. He turned and walked back the way he had come.

*   *   *

Bolan had left his horse comfortably stabled at Nommam and walked out to Guthreg’s manse. Locating the place had been simplicity itself. He had expected a silence from the journeyman goldsmith he had ventured to ask for directions and had been astounded when he was cheerfully furnished with fulsome instructions. The young artisan obviously considered that a Guild Master could cope with any unwanted visitors and that denying assistance to the friend of a full Master might prove a poor career move. He was right on both counts.

Now the powerful wrestler tramped up a freshly-swept path, tiled with an intricate mosaic in lurid colours. Splotches of glowing oranges and greens swirled and swam beneath his feet. Bolan circumspectly avoided a scrutiny of their pattern. It would be suicidal for him to approach the thief’s manse on any route but the main path and even here it behoved any visitor to exercise caution. So now he loitered, idly studying a border of tall lilies while they puffed out their cloying message on the breeze. Mock eyes of iridescent indigo were blinking at him with every languid flutter as an otherwise powder-blue butterfly hovered amid their sweet plenitude and then settled upon a straggling purple scabious that had eluded the gardener’s hoe. The incident seemed significant to Bolan and he lost himself in a reverie pondering it until he was disturbed by a discreet cough.

A boy, uniformed in violet velvet with golden piping, gold buttons and ludicrous violet slippers, regarded him with a smile of cultured hauteur. Bolan thought he looked over-heated.

Your sigil, sirrah. Bolan found himself addressed in high, chirruping tones. You do have a trade sigil for your business, sirrah, don’t you?

Bolan frowned down at the innocent, round-eyed face, angelic and impish together, and harrumphed in perplexity. Smitten with a flash of inspiration, he rummaged in a pocket and produced a gold double-ryal which he handed over with solemnity. With a bow, the boy scampered off towards the manse without further instruction or word.

Expression sour as a crab-apple, Bolan watched him vanish up the curved path, then shambled after him at his own sedate pace, passing between leafy bushes and ornate screens that could have hidden fifty ambushers and undoubtedly did conceal traps as lethal and cunning as the artful master could contrive. He thought the lot of a gardener here would be fraught.

The path debouched into a flagged yard before the house, surrounded by flowering shrubs. In the centre, a fountain bubbled up, emanating from the outstretched hand of a gilded figure, evidently modelled upon Guthreg’s portly form despite the presence of well-defined muscles more difficult to discern upon the master’s person. The water splashed down upon a host of silver kneeling figures with upturned faces importuning the golden statue. Each of those locked in supplication held aloft a silver bell to tinkle continuously in the spray. The bells had different pitches and in Bolan’s opinion the overall effect of their discordant tintinnabulation was remarkably irritating.

Before the archway leading into the buildings, a man made a poor effort at looking nonchalant while he leaned against a pillar. Bolan looked at the muscular frame and handsome face