04 Jan 2006
It was a few hours before dawn. On the very edge of the horizon the first tiny, purple clouds crept into the sky, but for the most part, all was dark. The moon had disappeared, and a chill wind whistled as a mist descended on the dying trees of the Wastes. Dark shapes jogged in between those ghostly trees, barely making a sound as they moved.
One of the shadowy creatures slowed, waiting as others caught up to him. His eyes glinted suddenly in the faint starlight, as he whispered, Harathor. The Marauders are up ahead. They came this way, it seems, for the grass is trampled here, and we have seen the light of several fires between the trees.
Good. Going by the tracks we have followed, some forty foes we have to face. There is another camp further onwards, but we do not need them and they will be too slow coming to the aid of these. The other whispered, glancing ahead, his bright eyes piercing the darkness. Be ready. At the signal, shoot as many as you can and then take the prisoners. Do not let any of them cry out!
The Shades, for that was who they were, approached the camp. Many people lay around the fires, heavily muscled men and fair women, their weapons strewn carelessly around them. Their one sentry was dead before he could raise an alarm shot by an Elven crossbow while he leaned carelessly against a tree trunk.
The Elves took up their positions around the camp, carefully aiming their crossbows at the hearts and heads of the sleeping warriors. Harathor raised one hand slowly, dropping it as one of the men stirred.
The hiss of crossbow bolts filled the air, embedding themselves in the chests of the sleeping tribe. Their blood spattered over the ground, oozing out of their wounds as they died silently, never even knowing that the would not wake from their dreams.
As the surviving warriors leapt to their feet, the Elves raced in from their hiding places amongst the trees and grabbed at their womenfolk and their children, who had no chance to defend themselves. The Marauders tried desperately to beat off the Elven attack, but the Elves fled with their captives back into the woods.
Among those carried away was Ulfain, wife of Cynan, Chieftain of the Hung.
***
Where is she? Where has she gone? Cynan said, the desperation clear in his voice.
She has been taken, Cynan. There is nothing we can do. A man, tall and proud, patted his friend on the shoulder.
Nah! I swear by every God in this world I will have their bastard leaders head for this! Ill kill him, Grigor! Cynan said, throwing off his friends hand and drawing his sword, making to go after the Elves.
If you go alone, you will be killed! What help will you be to Ulfain, if you yourself lie rotting amongst the trees? Take myself and Carlose, and the others, if you wish to strike back at the Elves.
Cynan stood in silence. He nodded, knowing that Grigor was right. But the fire in his eyes and the expression of fierce determination on his face was a clear indication to those around him of the pain he felt inside.
***
Cynan and some two-dozen warriors of the Hung tribe crept through the darkness. His friends walked beside him, Grigor, the tall, raven-haired beast of a man, and Carlose, a short man but an expert bowman. Ahead of them, they saw the Dark Elven garrison a cluster of walls, tents and watchtowers. Elves moved about between them, not noticing the sentries that had already fallen courtesy of Carloses arrows.
Cynan realized that even without the sentries, the Marauders would be seen before they wanted to be. With that in mind, Cynan beckoned three men over to him. Gark, Carlose, Deskar I need you to do something for me. It is dangerous, but you shall be richly rewarded should you return. Cynan said to three young men, pointing to one of the watchtowers. You must go there, and distract the Elves for as long as you can.
Each of the three men nodded, pulling axes from their belts and drawing swords from their scabbards. Cynan embraced each of them as though they were brothers, and clasped Carloses hand for a while, saying to him, Come back alive, friend. I shall need you, later. Carlose smiled.
No need to worry, Cynan, the gods love me! He said, turning to follow Gark and Deskar. Cynan laughed, and muttered to himself, The wrong bloody gods, I would say.
***
Harathor stood before his master, holding a struggling woman in his arms. She put up a good fight, Lord Corthwe. She slew one of the slavers as she was being taken to the cells.
Corthwe, Noble of Har Ganeth and the commander of the garrison, sat upon an iron chair, resting his pointed chin in the palm of his hand. Why must you disturb me for such a trivial matter? Have her beaten, then throw her back into the cells.
Begging your pardon, my lord, but I do not believe we should beat such a healthy slave.
You are a fool, Harathor. If she remains in the spirit she is in now, she will eventually escape and lead our enemies to us. Corthwe said arrogantly.
She would not escape, and she would prove a useful slave.
Ha! You wish to have her for yourself. But, now that I think about it this woman is beautiful unlike any Elvish maiden I have ever seen.
She should be a slave. You are highborn, you should not lower yourself to her level.
I tire of you, Harathor! Corthwe said, standing angrily from his chair, drawing his curved draich sword. I think your neck needs relieving from an over-large head. Before Harathor could react, Corthwe swung his sword towards him, and in a shower of gore and blood, his head fell to the floor.
Now, my pretty Chaos whore, we shall have some fun. Corthwe beckoned to the two elves guarding his room, and they left, closing the door behind them.
A sound came from behind that door, a slightly muffled, but still audible scream.
***
The dull sound of a woman screaming reached Cynans ears as he butchered yet another Elf. He knew straight away that it was his wife, and she was imperiled but more Elves were coming. They were surrounding the tribesmen, blocking them off, desperately trying to herd them into a single courtyard. But the vicious rage of the Hung was overpowering Elves were falling, screaming, clutching at wounds they could not even see through the haze of their own blood.
It was the harsh cries of a dying tribesman that alerted Cynan and Grigor of the arrival of Elven reinforcements. Dozens of wickedly armoured warriors, wielding long swords shaped in such a way they could rend a fully armoured man right through the middle with ease. Cynan knew of these warriors Executioners, they were called; merciless Elves who cared only for the favour of their gods. The tides of the battle were turning the tribe was outnumbered, and the dark warriors were pressing in from all sides.
Cynan! Grigor yelled, gesturing frantically at a tethered horse outside one of the courtyard doors. Cynan raced over to the horse, cutting down several Elves as he went. He picked up one of the Druchiis spears, and slashed the horses bindings and leapt upon his unsaddled back.
The horse reared in terror, but Cynan soon guided it into a charge into the Executioners. He used the spear with brutal efficiency he was well trained with a lance, and this spear was far lighter, and thus easier to swing.
He broke through the Elven lines, and sped towards the sound of the screams that still haunted his ears. He looked back to see Grigor, his friend of many years, fighting with the strength of a Norscan, but falling, the sheer numbers of the enemy taking its toll on him.
Executioners came at him from every angle, slashing with crude two-handed blows at Grigors muscled chest. But it was not that that felled the mighty warrior a dagger, thrown with skill from an unknown assailant, had embedded itself in Grigors neck.
Cynan yelled, with grief filling his body. An abrupt stop to the screams from beyond the door brought him to his senses, and the grief was overtaken by rage.
***
Candles lit the room dimly, flickering off the knife-blades that lay scattered on the floor. In the far corner, a figure lay, leather garment soaked with blood and clinging to its prone form. It was to that figure Cynan ran, clutching it in his arms as tears came to his eyes.
Now, really, I dont know what there is to weep about. She was not nearly as good as others I have had. A voice said, dripping with malice.
You murdering bastard! I will have your foul Elven head for this! Cynan said, a snarl on his face.
Oh? Well, I truly was amazed at how willingly she submitted to me. She must have known.
Known what? Cynan said, advancing on the Elf, who carried two swords similar to those wielded by the Executioners.
That I am more of a man than you will ever be. And I am an Elf!
At that, Cynan threw himself at the Elf, swinging his battleaxe in a vicious arc, aiming for Corthwes lithe Druchii neck. The Elf span out of harms way, slashing with his swords as he went past.
Cynan barely escaped his loose leather tunic had been slashed from side to side, and a faint trickle of blood escaped from the Marauders skin. He turned; ready to face the Elf again. They circled each other, staring directly into each others eyes. Corthwe feigned to the left with one sword, swinging the other in at Cynans thighs, but he dodged, smashing his axe against the delicate metal of the Elfs sword and breaking it in two, before ducking under the feigned blow before the blade connected with his head.
Corthwe sneered, grabbing one of the torches off the wall and throwing it towards the Marauder, hitting him squarely in the chest. Cynan ripped his flaming tunic from his chest, revealing singed muscles and the scars of many battles. This only made Cynan even more furious he lunged again at the Elf, swinging his sword with one hand but bringing the other in as a fist to punch the Elf on the jaw.
The Elf parried the blow, that same mocking sneer coming over his face before Cynans fist connected. The bone wrenched gruesomely out of place, and a stream of blood came from Corthwes mouth. He staggered, and Cynan took his opportunity, grabbing the Elf and throwing him to the ground.
He stamped his booted foot down on the Elfs chest, leveling his axe to slay the wicked creature.
You have killed my wife. You have killed my friends and my comrades. You have ravaged our peaceful towns and our farms for many years past. You have spilled the blood of so many of my kin, it is a wonder why your blades are not stained with the blood of those who fought only because you brought it upon them. But now? Now, your life shall be but one of many taken to redeem your actions. May your gods protect you, because mine shall not.
And with that he brought down his axe, severing Corthwes head and lodging his axe into the stone beneath.
***
Meanwhile, the battle was all but over outside. The Elves had fallen back, preferring to live another day and abandon their garrison to the Marauders. But the Marauders were not letting them get away they chased them down, hacking many where they stood. But their fury had burned itself out many men now fell to wounds they had not even known they had taken. It was less than a half-dozen men who still stood when Cynan emerged from Corthwes chambers, carrying his dead wife with him.
***
The sun was dying, illuminating the landscape in a sea of red and orange. So many had died today, thought Cynan small wonder it had even affected the sun. He walked with so few of his men what was it, three, four, five? Cynan even lacked the energy to count those who walked alongside him, all sporting wounds of their own. His wife bled as he walked, carrying her over his shoulder.
Both Carlose and Grigor had been slain. Carloses body had been found, a black-tailed arrow protruding from his neck as he lay, still bearing the confident smile he had when he spoke to Cynan for the last time.
It took some time for them to come once more to the camp, which only days ago had been a peaceful place, full of happiness and content. They walked to the river that ran beside it, gulping in handfuls of water. Cynan lay Ulfain down gently, pouring water over her in a vain attempt to remove the dry blood from her body. He shook with grief for a second, before standing and addressing the other men.
My brothers we fought like our Norscan cousins on this day, and yet so few of us still stand! Our friends and comrades lie dead on the ground, but they shall live on in memory and great tales shall one day be said about them. He smiled, and continued, They died to avenge my loss.'
'Aye, they did. And they were proud to do so! Do not regret their loss, they died fighting, as every man of the Hung wishes to do.'
'Ha! You're right. But I said, as I killed the cursed Elf, that I would not rest until the life-debt owed to the Hung was paid. One day they will all be dead, and maybe then I can rest. Maybe then, we shall find peace.
Hmm. This was written over a year ago, and if I could be bothered revising it, it would be quite different. For one, why are these Norscans so heroic...? I don't know. Thanks for reading. More stuff on the way.
SM
One of the shadowy creatures slowed, waiting as others caught up to him. His eyes glinted suddenly in the faint starlight, as he whispered, Harathor. The Marauders are up ahead. They came this way, it seems, for the grass is trampled here, and we have seen the light of several fires between the trees.
Good. Going by the tracks we have followed, some forty foes we have to face. There is another camp further onwards, but we do not need them and they will be too slow coming to the aid of these. The other whispered, glancing ahead, his bright eyes piercing the darkness. Be ready. At the signal, shoot as many as you can and then take the prisoners. Do not let any of them cry out!
The Shades, for that was who they were, approached the camp. Many people lay around the fires, heavily muscled men and fair women, their weapons strewn carelessly around them. Their one sentry was dead before he could raise an alarm shot by an Elven crossbow while he leaned carelessly against a tree trunk.
The Elves took up their positions around the camp, carefully aiming their crossbows at the hearts and heads of the sleeping warriors. Harathor raised one hand slowly, dropping it as one of the men stirred.
The hiss of crossbow bolts filled the air, embedding themselves in the chests of the sleeping tribe. Their blood spattered over the ground, oozing out of their wounds as they died silently, never even knowing that the would not wake from their dreams.
As the surviving warriors leapt to their feet, the Elves raced in from their hiding places amongst the trees and grabbed at their womenfolk and their children, who had no chance to defend themselves. The Marauders tried desperately to beat off the Elven attack, but the Elves fled with their captives back into the woods.
Among those carried away was Ulfain, wife of Cynan, Chieftain of the Hung.
***
Where is she? Where has she gone? Cynan said, the desperation clear in his voice.
She has been taken, Cynan. There is nothing we can do. A man, tall and proud, patted his friend on the shoulder.
Nah! I swear by every God in this world I will have their bastard leaders head for this! Ill kill him, Grigor! Cynan said, throwing off his friends hand and drawing his sword, making to go after the Elves.
If you go alone, you will be killed! What help will you be to Ulfain, if you yourself lie rotting amongst the trees? Take myself and Carlose, and the others, if you wish to strike back at the Elves.
Cynan stood in silence. He nodded, knowing that Grigor was right. But the fire in his eyes and the expression of fierce determination on his face was a clear indication to those around him of the pain he felt inside.
***
Cynan and some two-dozen warriors of the Hung tribe crept through the darkness. His friends walked beside him, Grigor, the tall, raven-haired beast of a man, and Carlose, a short man but an expert bowman. Ahead of them, they saw the Dark Elven garrison a cluster of walls, tents and watchtowers. Elves moved about between them, not noticing the sentries that had already fallen courtesy of Carloses arrows.
Cynan realized that even without the sentries, the Marauders would be seen before they wanted to be. With that in mind, Cynan beckoned three men over to him. Gark, Carlose, Deskar I need you to do something for me. It is dangerous, but you shall be richly rewarded should you return. Cynan said to three young men, pointing to one of the watchtowers. You must go there, and distract the Elves for as long as you can.
Each of the three men nodded, pulling axes from their belts and drawing swords from their scabbards. Cynan embraced each of them as though they were brothers, and clasped Carloses hand for a while, saying to him, Come back alive, friend. I shall need you, later. Carlose smiled.
No need to worry, Cynan, the gods love me! He said, turning to follow Gark and Deskar. Cynan laughed, and muttered to himself, The wrong bloody gods, I would say.
***
Harathor stood before his master, holding a struggling woman in his arms. She put up a good fight, Lord Corthwe. She slew one of the slavers as she was being taken to the cells.
Corthwe, Noble of Har Ganeth and the commander of the garrison, sat upon an iron chair, resting his pointed chin in the palm of his hand. Why must you disturb me for such a trivial matter? Have her beaten, then throw her back into the cells.
Begging your pardon, my lord, but I do not believe we should beat such a healthy slave.
You are a fool, Harathor. If she remains in the spirit she is in now, she will eventually escape and lead our enemies to us. Corthwe said arrogantly.
She would not escape, and she would prove a useful slave.
Ha! You wish to have her for yourself. But, now that I think about it this woman is beautiful unlike any Elvish maiden I have ever seen.
She should be a slave. You are highborn, you should not lower yourself to her level.
I tire of you, Harathor! Corthwe said, standing angrily from his chair, drawing his curved draich sword. I think your neck needs relieving from an over-large head. Before Harathor could react, Corthwe swung his sword towards him, and in a shower of gore and blood, his head fell to the floor.
Now, my pretty Chaos whore, we shall have some fun. Corthwe beckoned to the two elves guarding his room, and they left, closing the door behind them.
A sound came from behind that door, a slightly muffled, but still audible scream.
***
The dull sound of a woman screaming reached Cynans ears as he butchered yet another Elf. He knew straight away that it was his wife, and she was imperiled but more Elves were coming. They were surrounding the tribesmen, blocking them off, desperately trying to herd them into a single courtyard. But the vicious rage of the Hung was overpowering Elves were falling, screaming, clutching at wounds they could not even see through the haze of their own blood.
It was the harsh cries of a dying tribesman that alerted Cynan and Grigor of the arrival of Elven reinforcements. Dozens of wickedly armoured warriors, wielding long swords shaped in such a way they could rend a fully armoured man right through the middle with ease. Cynan knew of these warriors Executioners, they were called; merciless Elves who cared only for the favour of their gods. The tides of the battle were turning the tribe was outnumbered, and the dark warriors were pressing in from all sides.
Cynan! Grigor yelled, gesturing frantically at a tethered horse outside one of the courtyard doors. Cynan raced over to the horse, cutting down several Elves as he went. He picked up one of the Druchiis spears, and slashed the horses bindings and leapt upon his unsaddled back.
The horse reared in terror, but Cynan soon guided it into a charge into the Executioners. He used the spear with brutal efficiency he was well trained with a lance, and this spear was far lighter, and thus easier to swing.
He broke through the Elven lines, and sped towards the sound of the screams that still haunted his ears. He looked back to see Grigor, his friend of many years, fighting with the strength of a Norscan, but falling, the sheer numbers of the enemy taking its toll on him.
Executioners came at him from every angle, slashing with crude two-handed blows at Grigors muscled chest. But it was not that that felled the mighty warrior a dagger, thrown with skill from an unknown assailant, had embedded itself in Grigors neck.
Cynan yelled, with grief filling his body. An abrupt stop to the screams from beyond the door brought him to his senses, and the grief was overtaken by rage.
***
Candles lit the room dimly, flickering off the knife-blades that lay scattered on the floor. In the far corner, a figure lay, leather garment soaked with blood and clinging to its prone form. It was to that figure Cynan ran, clutching it in his arms as tears came to his eyes.
Now, really, I dont know what there is to weep about. She was not nearly as good as others I have had. A voice said, dripping with malice.
You murdering bastard! I will have your foul Elven head for this! Cynan said, a snarl on his face.
Oh? Well, I truly was amazed at how willingly she submitted to me. She must have known.
Known what? Cynan said, advancing on the Elf, who carried two swords similar to those wielded by the Executioners.
That I am more of a man than you will ever be. And I am an Elf!
At that, Cynan threw himself at the Elf, swinging his battleaxe in a vicious arc, aiming for Corthwes lithe Druchii neck. The Elf span out of harms way, slashing with his swords as he went past.
Cynan barely escaped his loose leather tunic had been slashed from side to side, and a faint trickle of blood escaped from the Marauders skin. He turned; ready to face the Elf again. They circled each other, staring directly into each others eyes. Corthwe feigned to the left with one sword, swinging the other in at Cynans thighs, but he dodged, smashing his axe against the delicate metal of the Elfs sword and breaking it in two, before ducking under the feigned blow before the blade connected with his head.
Corthwe sneered, grabbing one of the torches off the wall and throwing it towards the Marauder, hitting him squarely in the chest. Cynan ripped his flaming tunic from his chest, revealing singed muscles and the scars of many battles. This only made Cynan even more furious he lunged again at the Elf, swinging his sword with one hand but bringing the other in as a fist to punch the Elf on the jaw.
The Elf parried the blow, that same mocking sneer coming over his face before Cynans fist connected. The bone wrenched gruesomely out of place, and a stream of blood came from Corthwes mouth. He staggered, and Cynan took his opportunity, grabbing the Elf and throwing him to the ground.
He stamped his booted foot down on the Elfs chest, leveling his axe to slay the wicked creature.
You have killed my wife. You have killed my friends and my comrades. You have ravaged our peaceful towns and our farms for many years past. You have spilled the blood of so many of my kin, it is a wonder why your blades are not stained with the blood of those who fought only because you brought it upon them. But now? Now, your life shall be but one of many taken to redeem your actions. May your gods protect you, because mine shall not.
And with that he brought down his axe, severing Corthwes head and lodging his axe into the stone beneath.
***
Meanwhile, the battle was all but over outside. The Elves had fallen back, preferring to live another day and abandon their garrison to the Marauders. But the Marauders were not letting them get away they chased them down, hacking many where they stood. But their fury had burned itself out many men now fell to wounds they had not even known they had taken. It was less than a half-dozen men who still stood when Cynan emerged from Corthwes chambers, carrying his dead wife with him.
***
The sun was dying, illuminating the landscape in a sea of red and orange. So many had died today, thought Cynan small wonder it had even affected the sun. He walked with so few of his men what was it, three, four, five? Cynan even lacked the energy to count those who walked alongside him, all sporting wounds of their own. His wife bled as he walked, carrying her over his shoulder.
Both Carlose and Grigor had been slain. Carloses body had been found, a black-tailed arrow protruding from his neck as he lay, still bearing the confident smile he had when he spoke to Cynan for the last time.
It took some time for them to come once more to the camp, which only days ago had been a peaceful place, full of happiness and content. They walked to the river that ran beside it, gulping in handfuls of water. Cynan lay Ulfain down gently, pouring water over her in a vain attempt to remove the dry blood from her body. He shook with grief for a second, before standing and addressing the other men.
My brothers we fought like our Norscan cousins on this day, and yet so few of us still stand! Our friends and comrades lie dead on the ground, but they shall live on in memory and great tales shall one day be said about them. He smiled, and continued, They died to avenge my loss.'
'Aye, they did. And they were proud to do so! Do not regret their loss, they died fighting, as every man of the Hung wishes to do.'
'Ha! You're right. But I said, as I killed the cursed Elf, that I would not rest until the life-debt owed to the Hung was paid. One day they will all be dead, and maybe then I can rest. Maybe then, we shall find peace.
Hmm. This was written over a year ago, and if I could be bothered revising it, it would be quite different. For one, why are these Norscans so heroic...? I don't know. Thanks for reading. More stuff on the way.
SM