Flashback Trespass

[Razkar]

26th of Winter, 510AV

Wilamar had been to the jungle before, and his hate for it had not lessened one iota. It was dense and impossible to navigate, treacherous and filled with predators and, worst of all, the heat never eased up. Even now, when there should be an honest chill in the air so early in the morning, it was so humid that his skin undulated with sweat under his chainmail.

He cursed himself anew for accepting this contract and, once again, corrected himself.

He cursed the contract, but not the money. That was all well and good, not to mention reassuringly regular.

"Anything out there?"

The younger sellsword, Markus, shook his head without taking his eyes off the treeline two hundred paces away. The torches lining the perimeter illuminated it well enough, but anything more than fifty paces away and... nothing. Without the moon above them, fat and happy and bright, they might not even be able to see the trees.

"Not a thing, sir."

"Yeah, well, keep 'em open. Never know out here."

Markus snorted, earning him a sideways glance. He'd only been with Wilamar's company for a few months, signing on with them not long after they got this contract. A caravan of merchants and prospectors, seeking to avoid some... troublesome taxation questions by taking a long-forgotten route skirting the very edge of the Falyndar jungles.

But they were not so clueless as to think they wouldn't need protection. Hence Wilamar and his band.

Behind him, inside the perimeter of the camp, a hundred souls slept like the dead. Horses and donkeys snored softly and whinned in their sleep, as exhausted as their biped owners. Spices, fabrics, metal works and luxuries from Kalea and beyond were packed inside bags, sacks and crates, piled up and ready for loading tomorrow morning.

A breeze, thank the gods! Wilamar tilted his chin so it kissed his face. Any scrap of comfort is was welcome there. He longed to return to Kalea, where they actually had seasons, not just this endless, stifling humidity interrupted only by blazing sun and tepid torrents of rain. And booze? Huh. Not unless it was moonshine distilled from bananas...

"Keep watch." He said to the younger man. "Anything bigger than a deer moves out there, you raise the alarm. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Wilamar continued his rounds, as he had done every night for two months and more. There were five men on every side of the perimeter, half of his company, pretty much. Some of the younger ones had queried the wisdom of having a man for every ten feet, as if it was excessive. The older veterans had not argued.

Many of them knew Faylndar. Knew its dangers.

Knew its people. And rightly respected their abilities.

Wilamar smiled thinly to himself as he patrolled. Oh, they would never say they feared them. They would never admit that weakness. But when he'd told them that a party of pilgrims had offered them a thousand mizas a season to guard their venture just within the borders of Falyndar, he'd seen faces pale, features twitch, eyes glaze over with horrific recollections.

Gods knew he'd had his share. But such a generous contract...

The sentries all reported the same thing, and he spoke the same words, more or less: "Good, but keep looking." Then he walked to his tent. There were a dozen of them, most of them large enough for ten people, and three of them were occupied with his band of freebooters. They'd been quick and careful in their journey, not slowing or stopping and trying to avoid any attention.

But within a month of setting out, they had seen their first Myrian.

Wilamar lit his pipe from a torch and sucked it thoughtfully. They would come. He knew they would never allow any intrusion into their lands. But he had forty swords that were well-armed, well-provisioned and well-trained. Not to mention equipped with three dozen crossbows.

Let them come, if they dared. They'd die in droves.

The mercenary leader continued into his tent, a good night's sleep decided on.

Eyes watched him from a tall tree in the jungle. He was an ant to those eyes, literally because of distance and creed and race. Those eyes burned with cold but indignant hatred. Weapons slung below it ached and pleaded desperately to be unleashed.

The mouth below it whistled lowly, imitating a local bird perfectly. But one that did not call at night.

It was answered from the darkness below. Dozens more eyes were fixed on the encampment, the fiery mass of torches and tents that were defiling their sacred land with their very existence.

The mouth smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. Long enough they had flaunted themselves. Long enough had they been allowed their desecration. They were a long way from their gods. Here, in Falyndar, only one reigned supreme.

And those who followed her would wreak her vengeance this night.

[Razkar]

Fifteen days earlier, and the natives were restless.

The barrack room was alive with pent up aggression and frustrated bloodlust. A dozen Myrians paced and talked and sharpened their weapons and argued and sparred and wished and wished and wished for some action. The heat inside the stone building was stifling but they paid it no mind; after all, this was their jungle, and their climate.

Anything short of tropical would have been frigid to them.

"Nothing for a month," growled one of them between sword strokes as she sparred with a short, squat male, "Dhani quiet, Fish People under the waves, humans are nowhere in the jungle... and no more rebels to be found!"

She struck out again to punctuate the word and the male opposite her swung up his mace to deflect the blow. But Erama was not so easily dissuaded, sliding forwards to slam an elbow into his stomach, sending him staggering back. The circle of spectators around her growled their approval. The male bared his teeth and hissed.

"There's always someone to fight. Just have to wait for it."

Erama grinned and swung again, but it was a feint, drawing his arm up to block it-

-only for her to slam her foot into his stomach, following it up with a vertical chop to his wrist, disarming him-

-and then he blinked, found the wooden sparring sword hovering at his throat.

"Why wait?"

Razkar observed the spar with a cold, clinical eye. Erama was a fine warrior, but her arrogance needed to be tempered. Oxil needed to work on his footwork, too. The entire fight she had danced around him, keeping him on the defensive the entire time. He'd lost the initiative within moments, and once you lost that, you lost the fight.

The young Shorn Skulls clansman watched the sparring session break up and went back to sharpening his own weapons. The hand ax he was so proud of was honed to a fine edge. Time to move on to his gladius. He smiled fondly at the leather-bound bone now serving as his hilt. Elanosa. He would remember her the rest of his life, he was sure of that.

And now he profited evermore from that glorious fight, his first true taste of mortal combat in a pitched battle.

Shhhhhk... shhhhk... shhhhk...

The sound of his whetstone moving up the blade was steady and constant amid the din of voices. Razkar had been with the Taloba army for over two years now, making him something of a veteran among his fang. "Something" in that there were others with more experience, but many of those who groused and complained around him were younger pups. Some were only a few weeks out of their savage training regimes.

But he had learned patience. He had found that it was always rewarded.

"What about you?" He looked up, realizing he was being addressed by another. Oxil stood above his bunk, wounded pride visible in his scowling eyes. "You've been with the fang for years. Surely you're eager for a fight?"

He nodded, whetstone still journeying up, and back, up and back.

"Always."

"Aren't you angry?"

"Angry at whom?"

Oxil opened his mouth, but of course the answer did not come. So: he did have a brain. Who was there to rage at? The snake people were staying in their underground city, not daring to show their faces in the jungles owned by Myri's children. The fish people were as elusive as ever, hidden in their underwater towns, impenetrable to Razkar's people. The humans were behaving themselves for now, and after years of low-level rebellions and feuds, the dozens of clans comprising the Myrian nation had as one recognized the authority and grace of the Goddess-Queen.

Defiance meant death. Not jut the possibility of it, but the certainty. Thus, there was peace...

Finally the younger warrior shook his head angrily, as if trying to bite his own ear, hand gripping and re-gripping the sword at his belt.

"We are warriors. We need a war."

"War always comes." Razkar said quietly, inspecting his blade and finding a slight tarnish on one edge. "It is eternal, like the Goddess-Queen. We need only prepare for it."

"You mean train?"

"Exactly."

"I'm tired of training."

Then Razkar's gaze became stern, critical, even severe. Oxil felt something cold crawl up his spine but kept his eyes on the older Myrian. The voice that spoke was tinged with steel.

"We are warriors. Warriors are not born, Oxil, despite what the romantics tell you. They are formed. They are molded, by their own will and the expertise of their instructors. They are trained. And with every spar, every run, every day that we spend sweating and straining, we become better. Stronger. Harder. Ready for the war that comes."

"I... I just wish it would."

Razkar shrugged and went back to his gladius. Ah... much better. He sheathed it carefully and stood up. Not even midday yet: plenty of time for sparring. Herliz might be available.

"As Myri commands, Oxil. That is the motto of the Taloba Army. If that is unsuited to you, feel free to go home."

Oxil's face flushed and there would certainly have been another brawl moments later, but before it could come to life the door burst open and a sergeant stood there. Tall, tanned and with sinews like vines, Rehkuna was a long-time veteran of Taloba, a fighter and marked warrior since before Razkar had slain his first enemy. She was the leader of the fang, and when she entered, everything stopped and all eyes swung to her.

"Training Yards, now."

She said curtly. Within an instant the Myrians leapt to follow her command. Razkar had a tiny smile on his face as he hurried with them outside. He had heard that tone before, that urgency tinged with excitement. Not another training session. Not another run or calisthenics ordeal. Something... more.

And when he walked outside and saw Kreesha of the Morning Bird standing in the middle of the yard, arms crossed and green skin shining in the sun, he knew he was right.

[Razkar]

"Our lands have been defiled."

And with those words a murmur of shocked anger rippled through the crowd. There were a half-dozen fangs amassed along with Rehkuna's. Half a dozen grim, taut, still women standing before their men and women, weapons at ease but yes watchful and keen. Razkar's eyes wandered briefly across the faces around him. Many he had fought with before; most he had sparred and trained with. But when Kreesha spoke those words, she had everyone's attention.

The Myrian general nodded sharply and two aides rolled out a map against the wall. The familiar shape of Falyndar was emblazoned upon the treated leather. Taloba was roughly in the middle, the metaphorical and literal heart of their nation. The great, empty blue mass of the basin was right next to it, and the black splotches of Zinrah and Syka in the north and east. Black Rock, self-contained and beholden to Dira, not Myri, was an island off the east coast, and there were dozens of smaller little dots denoting villages across the jungles.

It had taken centuries to make the map. Razkar had asked about it, amazed that a jungle as thick and furious as Falyndar had ever been mapped. But even then, there were still massive blank spaces, devoid of any marks...

Places where even Myrians had never trod.

But now Kreesha drew their eyes with her finger to the top corner of it, where their northern reaches met with the barbarian land called "Kalea". Her fingr rested in a new mark in red ink, maybe fifty miles into the jungle and fifteen days from Taloba.

"There is a human party in our jungle." He gestured to an older female, stern and gray-haired, lined and wrinkled but still looking carved from oak. "This is Jekila of the Shattered Teeth. Her village is three days from the borders of our land, and her clan discovered this... trading caravan, we believe it to be. The humans have over a hundred in their party, and Jekila's scouts have seen over thirty men guarding it. Mercenaries, most likely, but well-armed."

"Why are they here?"

Kreesha shrugged, as if the question and the answer were irrelevant. Which they were. Razkar idly wondered, and there were several possibilities. The jungles were a treasure trove of untold wonder and wealth, he had always known that, and since the Myrians had no real interest in plumbing them, they had far more in terms of metals than many other nations. But the humans? They sucked the life and richness from their lands until they were wasted, and then went on to the next. Like a plague. Like a disease.

He caressed the hilt of his gladius. They were trespassers on sacred land, and that would not be tolerated.

"A short cut, we assume. Jekila's people have not seen them mine or harvest or steal from the land. They are simply passing through, maybe to avoid others of their race. Regardless, there are outside of their lands."

She turned to the assembled fangs, eyes burning as they swept across them all like a scourging flame. Razkar could see why she held Myri's favor so highly: her passion and loyalty were almost tangible.

"For generations, the humans have kept to a simple, single command from the Goddess-Queen: stay away from her jungles. These people have defied that command."

The murmur became a growl, teeth bared and weapons grasped all over the courtyard.

"You will go forth. You seven fangs, all battle-tested and proven warriors. Observe your target. Find the best way to assault these vermin and when you do-"

Her hand struck out like a blur and slammed her fist against the red spot.

"-destroy them. Utterly. Every living creature, every trace of this blasphemy, aside from the heads of the slain left in warning. So that the next that follow will learn... Falyndar is for the Myrians. And no others!"

Now a roar rose from seventy throats and more, rose along with swords and axes and maces, weapons pledged and anger vented. Razkar was among them, gladius and hand ax raised to the sun.

War had come, as he knew it would.

[Razkar]

"Jekila's people will pay for this."

That came from Rehkuna. The sergeant was standing at the treeline with the rest of them, glaring at the offending encampment and its flaming, mocking torches. Razkar wondered why the Shattered Teeth would suffer, but it did not take him long to work it out. Besides, Rehkuna spelled it out for him.

"The northern reaches are their responsibility. Their patrols should be doubly as frequent and aggressive. But these humans had the time to advance so deeply into our land?"

She spat to her side in disgust. Razkar was glad he was Shorn Skulls.

"After we are finished here... there will be a reckoning."

Razkar decided to keep his eyes on the walls, grating as it was to curse his eyes with them, but it was better than looking at Rehkuna. Around them nearly eighty Myrians crouched, sat, stood, sharpening weapons and readying themselves. But in silence. They did not want to give the humans any hint they were there. Not until the last moment. Fifteen days that had marched, through humid air and clouds of mosquitoes and near-impassable undergrowth. But they knew it would be worth it.

Rehkuna sniffed the night air, and Razkar watched her. She knew what would follow this night, what always followed it in the jungles of Falyndar. A chance to have battle truly joined, and take their enemy by complete surprise.

"We shall use the mist." Rehkuna said, and turned to Razkar. "Spread the word. We rise long before dawn, when it is thickest. And tell the archers to have their bows ready..."

[Razkar]

"By the gods... have you ever seen muck like this?"

Markus peered and peered but it did not good. The mist that rolled and spewed from the jungles settled over everything like a choking blanket. If visibility was bad before, now it was non-existent. The torches sputtered and choked in the grip of it. The moon was no good to them, having already retreated down below the jungle treeline, and still two hours before dawn.

His world now was blindness and darkness.

"Bloody ridiculous." Vandamar said ten feet from him... and gods he could barely see him. "Not even in the mountains."

The two men shook their heads in disgust and enjoyed their boring lives for another few minutes. Looking back on it, they should probably have done something more interesting with them.

Below the mist, unseen for now, lithe figures squirmed and crawled along the ground. With the mist so thick, those humans could not see them approach. Razkar was among them, arms and legs working quickly and mechanically, soft, wet ground muting his movements.

A bird call in the gloom by the treeline, and seventy Myrians stopped crawling. That was the sign. And then Markus heard another... and unseen by him, twenty of those muddy, bloody savages rose and strung their bows...

[Razkar]

She wasn't a whore, but she was pretty close. Wilamar reflected as he watched her dress that she was merely beholden to her circumstances. She wished to leave Kalinor but had no money. He never inquired too deeply into why she had to go: life as a mercenary had taught him that it was often best to leave things unanswered. She said that she would sell her slit, as long as he did not bruise her. He had agreed, and did not.

Her name was Raquel, and he was growing fond of her.

"I thought you were tired?"

"What can I say?" He replied with a slow smile, shrugging as he lay on his camp bed. "You give a man life just by laying in bed."

She cocked an eyebrow and slid-wriggled herself into her simple dress. "Laying or lying?"

"You tell me."

"A lady never tells."

"I thought that was a gentleman?"

"Point one out and we'll see."

Wilamar chuckled and lay back, resting his head on his pillow. It was cheap duck feathers inside an old sack, but after what he had just endeavored upon, it felt like goose down wrapped in silk. The woman slid into bed next to him, tucked under his shoulder. There were several minutes of polite, quiet silence as both of them studied the roof of his tent. Predictably, it was her who spoke.

"You're still worried."

He smiled. A statement, not a question. Already she was learning his moods.

"There are savage people here."

"The Myrians." She shuddered in his grip, warm flesh vibrating briefly against his. "My mother told me stories. They eat their dead, don't they?"

"No. Just the dead of other people. I think they burn their own."

"Monsters."

"Monsters with brains, my dear. That's what people always forget. The Falyndar jungle is as vast as the Sea of Grass, you know that? And they control it all. You don't do that by being stupid."

"Don't believe I called them stupid," she said, once again with that playfully defiant tone in her voice, "you did."

"Yeah, well... people assume."

"Evidently."

"OK, that's it!"

Her swung his lean body around and probing fingers started to tickle mercilessly. Her laugh rang out like a bell as she squirmed under him, sobbing and choking and laughing all at once. He'd probably catch the hells for it in a few hours, dour miners complaining about his "wench" making such "disgusting noises". But for now, Wilamar was content.

Raquel was, too. She was growing fond of the sellsword, in her own way.

The scream shattered the moment forever.

The two people froze for a moment, that terrible frozen second when danger has revealed itself and the mind struggles for a response. Wilamar heard at least two separate cries on pain, the thumps of bodies on moist ground.

His head jerked up to his tent entrance. The mist had no yet penetrated the walls and inside the encampment was still fairly clear.

So he had no problem seeing Markus' body fall to the ground, an arrow buried in his neck.

"ATTACK!" He roared, already rolling the woman off him and twisting into his pants. No time for anything else but his weapons. He shouted again until his throat was roar. "TO ARMS, YOU BASTARDS! TO ARMS!"

His cry was taken up by a half-dozen others, for not all the sentries had been felled by the volley of arrow fire. The survivors screamed and bellowed and shouted and drew their weapons, even as half the men on the perimeter died around them. Two dozen human mercenaries were jerked out of their sleep by the noise, grabbing weapons never far from their grasp, staggering to their feet.

Wilamar got to his own with his sword in his hand. Then he heard it: the distinctive yells and whoops of Myrians. Low and guttural, high and keening, joy and hate and rage and blood-fueled exhilaration all mingled together.

And from dozens of throats.

He whirled to the woman, still laying in shock in the bed, breasts exposed in her stupefaction.

"Hide! Now, woman!"

She did her best, having time for little else. Wilamar rushed out, sword in hand. They needed to stop the first wave and leave the rest to be slaughtered by the crossbowmen. Because if the Myrians got in close, and with enough numbers.

Fear and desperation sent him hurtling towards the sound of the approaching savages, just as the first half-naked, blackened figures came screaming out of the mist.

[Razkar]

A bird call set it off. Markus thought it sounded off, almost... angry. But before he could make anything more of it, a volley of barbed arrows hurtled towards them fast as a blink and one pierced his throat like a knife through a pudding.

Vandamar's mouth opened in shock as he watched his comrade topple backwards onto the moist mud beneath them. But before a sound could follow the movement another arrow slammed into his shoulder. His shout became a scream of pain, another sentry next to him shrieked shrilly as an arrow pierced his heart-

The Myrians had ringed the camp quite thoroughly, covered ably by the mist of their land. Now they struck from all sides, swift and sure and deadly.

The sergeants had organized it beautifully. A fang assaulting each wall, with half a fang of archers supporting them. A half-dozen grappling hooks sailed over each of the four walls, some pulling taut, some not taking. But numbers counted. And they would not waste the opportunity.

Nor would Razkar. He sprang to his feet, ax in hand, charging through the soup-thick mist and towards the torches that lit his way to whatever enemy he could get his blade to. Already he could see shadowy figures waving long, shining shapes approaching him-

Someone screamed a war cry from his right and a half-naked man swung his sword in a flat arc at his neck-

Razkar dropped like a stone to one knee, sword sailing over his head, his attacker's arm carried with it-

-and he buried his ax into the figure's gut.

Wilamar doubled over and his eyes popped open in shock. He had failed. He knew this wound; he'd inflicted it as much as he had seen it. It was slow, and painful and mortal. But he was not dead yet, and even when the savage yanked the ax free and blood arced from his belly, he swung backhand with his sword.

Razkar yelped and staggered backward as the hilt slammed into his jaw, stars and blackness filling his eyes, balance going to all the hells-

By some miracle he kept hold of his ax, knuckles white as he did, as sheer chaos played out around him.

Dark shapes flew from the mists into the camp, sword and dagger and ax and club in their hands. Others wearing mail and cloaks engaged them with bravery that even he appreciated. More of them spilled from the tents, most of them half-naked, no time for armor or even shoes, just pants, shorts and weapons.

The chaos continued.

Two dozen Myrians were already nose-to-nose with the human, slashing and hacking away, scalping and mutilating them even as they died, establishing a beachhead for the rest, slaughtering the sentries-

-until a hail of crossbow bolts swept over them.

Razkar roared in rage as he saw four of his people killed in a mere moment, evil metal bolts punching through their unarmored forms like parchment. A dozen humans were already reloading as fast as they could, crouched down and fumbling with... winding... some bow he had never seen before.

Razkar screamed his fury, running and shrieking as he crashed into them.

Continued here

[Traverse]

Thread Awards! Razkar : Experience: Hand Axe 1 Intimidation 1 Observation 2 Rhetoric 1 Stealth 1 Lore: A Home Field Advantage Learning About Crossbows the Hard Way Additional Notes : Full notes included in Scorched Earth Questions, Concerns? PM me and we'll be to the bottom of it. Safe Travels!