Blood Trail: Marauder's Blood Saga, #2

By Jon Kiln

Haunted by the rampant injustice in the empire, Vorgan is plagued by the realization that his days of peace are forever gone. The thought of being relentlessly pursued again is a certainty he cannot escape.

 

In a bold move, Vorgan, accompanied by Chriselda and the concubines, ventures to the capital city to seek an old ally. His mission: to gather intelligence on undermining the Empire's tyrannical rule. However, what he uncovers in the heart of the city is a chilling revelation, one that will turn even this hardened warrior's blood cold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223011965

Book preview

Blood Trail

Marauder’s Blood Saga: Book Two

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by Jon Kiln

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

Table of Contents

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Epilogue

1

Tell me again. Vorgan crossed his arms and leaned against a small tree. It stretched out over the bank of the babbling creek, which he ignored. Because it sounds an awful lot like you abandoned the concubines to the untamed wilds in order to chase me... for your own reasons.

I followed you because you don’t strike me as the kind of man who runs away. Chriselda shifted her weight, thrusting her hip to the side. She regarded the broad-shouldered warrior in front of her.

Vorgan wore freshly cleaned leather armor, augmented by various metal portions, a well-stocked travel pack, and multiple weapons, including a double-ended spear strapped to his back. His dark hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight while his blue eyes sparked disapproval.

Chriselda folded her arms.

Is that so? Vorgan returned. I actually did run away a while back, as a point of fact. The Empire found me living happily far away from them in a collection of village huts. Vorgan eyed the coquettish concubine.

The vivid green of the clearing they stood in emphasized her icy blue eyes and luscious, peachy lips. The dappled shadows playing over her head downplayed the freckles on her cheeks and the silver of her shortened hair. Evidently, a simple wash hadn’t been enough to correct everything done to it in their previous adventures. She’d had to cut it, at least a little. Before, it had framed her crisp jawline. Now it curled around her delicate, pixie features in short, tousled locks.

Right! Chriselda pointed at him. You know running’s wrong. It won’t work. So what I can’t figure out is what you’re doing out here. She gestured to the dirt road winding through the grassy valley and out into the wilderness, her green dress rippling with her motion.

Chriselda wore considerably more than Vorgan had ever seen her in before. Granted, for most of their association, she’d been in rags and forced to tear strips off even that. Now she wore simple traveling clothes, sturdy and plain, though her well-toned curves made the homespun skirt and girdle cling in a far too intriguing manner.

Vorgan turned his face away to gaze over the creek before he said something he would regret later. Chriselda was an attractive woman, and clearly felt for him. He knew Ol’ Trog would have slapped him upside the head for turning away from her.

Vorgan wasn’t sure he didn’t deserve it.

I don’t know why you think I’m running away... he said.

A thousand times you could have abandoned me, she interjected. You could have done as Uthros asked. You could have just turned me over to the Warmaster! But you didn’t. Every opportunity you had, you made the right choice. The moral choice.

"You chased me down to discuss my morals?"

And now that it’s all over, you’re taking off for... where, again?

Irrelevant. Vorgan restrained himself from rolling his eyes at her naivete. Barely. I can’t say Sinaidu won’t hunt me. That’s why I sent you away. I’ve got to run far enough that he can never find me.

"Oh that’s why you sent me away? She crossed her arms under her ample chest. Because something about the past few days convinced you that I can’t handle myself?"

Chriselda had a body any male he’d ever met would desire, and a mind sharper than most. Her loyalty and trust had kept her at his side through the most harrowing of their travails.

But she had absolutely no experience.

Of course she tracked him down. She would naturally want to stay with a man who not only rescued her from mortal danger, more than once, but also treated her with kindness.

Any man who would take advantage of that deserved a dagger in the chest.

Ignore all that, he said with an exasperated sigh. Tell me again about the concubines.

They were none too happy with the idea of living in Caedlund, I’ll tell you that. She turned to examine a trumpet-shaped fuchsia bloom near her head. The scent of wildflowers clouded around them, the heavy perfume drawing buzzing insects.

They dislike freedom?

They dislike being left for dead on the side of the road.

They don’t have the skills to trek across the countryside. What if bandits come upon them? They’re considerably worse off now than they would be, even in the Emperor’s harem! Vorgan, irritated, took a breath. Did they have an alternative suggestion?

They went to Modriin.

"They did what?!"

What were they supposed to do, Vorgan? Chriselda turned back to face him and put her hands on her hips. They wouldn’t survive in Caedlund. There’s no call for concubines there.

I didn’t send them there to be concubines! Vorgan threw up his hands.

What, were they all to become milkmaids, then? Shepherdesses? Don’t be daft! Of course they went to Modriin!

"And they set out on the road alone?" Vorgan stared at her.

It’s not like you were around to escort them, were you? Chriselda exploded. Sneaking off like this.

Don’t turn this around and make it all about me, he warned.

Well, if you are so worried about their safety on the road, then why did you send them out alone on a three day journey in the first place?

I— He practically snarled. I wasn’t sending them to Modriin! To the capital of the damn Empire!

Where else could they have gone with their skills, hmm?

Obviously I thought they would be safe in Caedlund, he growled.

"Well, they didn’t agree. She turned to toy idly with a spray of ferns. They aren’t suited to a farmer’s life. They need civilization, Vorgan! She rounded on him. People, not cows! And, who would look for a runaway slave in Modriin? With so many people there, who could find them? They’ll blend into the crowd."

"Blend in? Have you seen those women?"

Chriselda sniffed, nose in the air.

Just what do they think they’re going to do when they arrive in Modriin? Vorgan asked quickly.

"They do have training in both acrobatics and entertainment, you know. It’s not important work like farming, but they aren’t unskilled! They could—"

Entertainment. Vorgan shook his head. You mean as courtesans. You have no idea how dangerous that is.

Everything is dangerous! She rolled her eyes. Plowing is dangerous. Walking down the street is dangerous. Being a concubine for the Emperor is dangerous, Vorgan. It gets you dead. There’s no chance at any other end. So, we’re used to dangerous occupations. Anything else is safer than that. At least with entertainment, we know what we’re getting into.

So it’s ‘we,’ now, is it? Vorgan gave her a scathing look.

You know what I mean. She turned away from his face. We are all concubines.

I sent you all to a place where you wouldn’t have to be.

It’s all we know. She folded her arms again and ran one foot along the back of the opposite calf, uncomfortable. It’s all we’ve got, she whispered.

What you’ve got is eight women about to be re-captured by the Empire, Vorgan groused.

And what will happen if they do get caught? she asked, turning back to him. Do you think they’ll talk about what happened at the fort? They know your name... Chriselda let the implication trail off.

Vorgan closed his eyes with a sigh. Letting it be known that he had defeated Warmaster Enlirsus and was technically Warmaster in his place would be a disaster.

The last thing he needed was to get swept up in imperial politics.

You know, we could probably catch up to them pretty quickly if you wanted to provide a secure escort, Chriselda chirped. Make sure they don’t run into trouble.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Vorgan knew manipulation when he heard it.

She smiled, all innocence.

He leaned the back of his head against the rough bark of the tree. He’d been caught. Few choices remained him.

I do know a few people in Modriin, he sighed. I... considered heading there myself. There are some folks who might be able to lend us a hand.

So it’s ‘us,’ now, is it?

Vorgan raised his head and stared at her.

She beamed.

You did not win. He pointed at her. This is stupid.

Then don’t do it. She gave a half-shrug. Let the helpless concubines wander alone in the wilderness.

He glared.

She smiled.

Alright. He stared at the ground as he growled out his words. Show me where they are. We can be the capital in a few days.

And here you thought you were done with me, she teased.

Vorgan pushed off from the tree he’d leant against with one booted foot.

That way. As Chriselda raised her arm to point the way, the sun caught on a bead of her leather wrist cuff.

Vorgan began to walk, wondering at the new ornament.

So, Chriselda asked as she trotted merrily at his side, where did you get that? She waved a hand at the double-headed spear strapped to his back.

Vorgan raised one eyebrow at the question and sped his stride.

2

The Rinton Way had broadened from a well-packed dirt road to a stone-lined throughway hours back. Moonlight gleamed on the flat stones, glinting on inset quartz flakes here and there as if reflecting the stars above the open countryside.

Lingering near the treeline, Vorgan and Chriselda peered at the crumbling windmill ahead of them. The main building still held true, though the exposed edges of its bricks were softening with the regular onslaught of wind and rain. The large windblades showed gaping holes as well, testaments to the length of time the place had been abandoned.

A large man pounded on the heavy, wooden door with a fist, then backed into the crowd of milling figures.

You gotta come out some time! he yelled.

Others in the crowd rumbled.

All we got to do is wait!

Is he trying to threaten the concubines inside or reassure his fellows? Chriselda whispered as the frontman moved to issue orders to others behind him.

Vorgan turned his head slowly to stare at her.

The crowd separated into two unequal groups, apparently at the frontman’s orders. The first group consisted of only a few vocal members who took turns harassing the concubines holed up in the abandoned windmill. The second group continually moved about in a tight configuration, members ducking down and weaving about each other as they focused on something in the middle of the weedy grass. After a brief time, various persons broke off from the main group to wander the grass, only to return shortly thereafter.

"I’ll be out here, thinkin’ about you allll night!" one of the larger of the men called. He grabbed at his crotch and laughed.

A few others laughed and added comments of their own.

I sure am glad the concubines have taken such good care of themselves, Vorgan whispered harshly. Good thing they didn’t follow my original plan.

A glowing spark sprang to life in the weedy dark. It quickly grew to a roaring bonfire as the second group of men moved into a loose ring about it.

You know, this is exactly the reason I came for you, Chriselda pointed out. I knew you’d want things handled right.

E’rdiwan, a whip-thin man whined to the frontman. They aren’t coming out.

E’rdiwan left off laughing at the concubines and whirled on his intruder. In the flickering light of the fire, his features came into stark relief. Red welts covered his entire head like rivulets of melted wax. Several open wounds shone wetly in the flickering light.

Chriselda gasped at the grotesque figure.

What’s that, Arsingin? One welt-ridden hand shot out to grip the other man’s face, fingers digging into cheek and nostril alike.

Arsingin immediately latched onto E’rdiwan’s wrist with both hands, trying to wrestle him away.

E’rdiwan kicked out with one foot and swept the other man’s legs out from under him. He brought the man to his knees, nails tearing at Arsingin’s countenance as he went down.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! the smaller man howled.

Damn right you are. E’rdiwan let loose another vicious kick, right into the man’s face. Always. So, and another, Damn, and another kick, Sorry.

Chriselda turned away from the carnage.

Blood flew.

The man did not get up.

E’rdiwan kept kicking.

What’s keeping the men from entering the windmill? Vorgan asked as a distraction.

The group of men around the bonfire appeared to be making camp under the direction of one of their number. They studiously ignored the savage beating as they laid out bedding on the far side of the bonfire and stacked up extra wood.

Several men winced at every strike, but made no other move.

This behavior is not uncommon, Vorgan concluded.

The concubines... they moved the millstone in front of the door, I think, Chriselda said with a swallow. She appeared to be getting herself under control again. There was some discussion of that type of thing before I set off to find you. Erishki wanted to set traps. She gave a wan smile. She’s always joking, but it started everyone thinking. Pushing chairs or beds in front of doors was one of the first suggestions after that.

Vorgan nodded and noted the leaves rustling above his head as the wind changed. He urged Chriselda a little deeper into the shadows.

A rank, sickly sweet scent reminiscent of rotting meat, spoiled mushrooms, and cooked cabbage washed over them.

Oh, Chriselda exclaimed. Ugh! Wha—? She frantically waved her arm in front of her face.

Ah, Vorgan murmured. I understand now.

What? What can such a terrible smell make you understand? Chriselda mumbled, arm plastered to her face.

Do you see those men? He pointed at the men in the clearing.

Barely. She blinked luminous eyes gone watery, and squinted.

Vorgan smiled a little at the childish image she made, hiding behind her arm.

Those aren’t men, he told her.

Could have fooled me.

That’s a gang infested with the Seep Rot.

Chriselda pulled a disgusted face. That sounds awful!

E’rdiwan stooped and began to fiddle with the body. After a moment, he stood and held his dripping fist aloft, a demented grin on his face.

Seep Rot is a highly dangerous disease, Vorgan agreed. Particularly dangerous when you consider that its first signs are seeping sores. Contact with that wetness will cause one to fall victim to the Rot too. Vorgan shrugged. It is believed to be a mark of disfavor from the Risen Lords.

E’rdiwan brought his dripping handful to his face and shoved gory, red flesh into his mouth. The bloody gob was far too big for one mouthful. E’rdiwan rubbed the remainder over his ruined face, groaning loudly.

Its last stages end in terrible madness, Vorgan commented.

Chriselda turned away from the visibly excited madman.

Those who become afflicted are often forced out of society. They form camps or become wandering brigands, like these fellows here. Vorgan gestured with one arm.

You want a piece of this? E’rdiwan called to the firmly shut door. I’ll give you a piece of every man here!

They’re... rotting?

From the inside out, yes. He nodded solemnly.

And we’re smelling... their rot? Chriselda’s voice thickened with disgust and horror. She edged toward a thicker patch of bushes. We won’t—?

No, we won’t catch it just from the scent.

Chriselda swallowed hard and breathed out a sigh of relief.

This is a common set up amongst men like these.

Chriselda raised an eyebrow in the dim light. "This is common?" she gestured to the madman wallowing in the remains of another.

Blood smeared his face and hands, disguising the seeping wounds covering his flesh. It dripped down, soaking into his filthy clothing, adding to the stains already there.

E’rdiwan! a man wearing a thick band of fabric about his head called.

He whirled, eyes bulging, the remains of his lips twisted in a sneer.

Mead! The man raised a leather purse and sloshed it enticingly.

It’s a pretty simple threat, Vorgan explained. ‘Give us your money or we’ll rub our seeping hands all over you.’

Go on! E’rdiwan flapped one arm as if shooing away an irritating bird.

They’re a big gang, so whoever they target can’t stop them all, even should the Rotters lose a few members.

And that may not matter so much to some of them, Chriselda murmured.

Come, have a drink with me! the man tried again.

Even then, Vorgan shrugged, it might end in new recruits.

And money. People will throw coins at them to get away, Chriselda mused.

But today, there’s something new here.

E’rdiwan studied the windmill again, fumbling at his pants.

Women. Chriselda nodded. "No woman in her right mind would lay with... that."

And they’re trapped in there, no escort in sight. He glowered. If only someone had thought something like this might happen.

There was no way—

He looked to her, his eyes sharp. I don’t know what this is all about, Chriselda. But I have a strong suspicion that those ladies didn’t come up with the idea to go to Modriin by themselves.

What? She crossed her arms. That’s just—

"I hope I’m