Finally now, he had pushed to the front of the crowd, reaching one of several tables set up in the far square. Despite the crowds, and though these desks were the ultimate goal, lines were short or nonexistent. Perhaps the excitement of being part of the crowd was overcome by the actual fear of enlisting. Regardless, Hafgan approached a balding, piggy-eyed man who was sitting behind one desk and mopping his brow. The sun had baked his scalp a nice, bright red, and the man was none too happy as a result. Or maybe it was just his wretched personality.
“We’s got ourselves another goddamned fuzz-face,” he muttered, barely glancing at Hafgan. Hafgan stood for a long minute, attempting a respectful politeness. Those in the human military did so enjoy abject respect, particularly from civilians.
“Sir,” Hafgan said, growing irritated at being ignored.
“Oh, it kin fucking talk, kin it?” His piggy eyes squinted at Hafgan, showing obvious disdain.
“It can indeed talk,” said Hafgan, focusing on each word to ensure proper construction. At least one of them would speak the Ardian correctly.
“You’re one of dem wit’ shaved teeth, eh? Can’t stand bein’ a goat, eh? Well, you ain’t a human, that’s clear as good liquor. Godsdamned wannabe.”
Hafgan ground his filed teeth together. It wasn’t that he was unused to this kind of blatant racial attack. It happened most days that he left his boarding house. It was more that this man was one of those sub-classes of humans, of the type that couldn’t even speak the language correctly or treat others with common courtesy. Hafgan had little respect for humans like this. However, he followed cultural protocol and didn’t respond to the man’s obvious baiting. He had an assignment, after all. And, it was finally an assignment that would utilize his particular set of skills.
He ignored the man’s insulting question, and instead retaliated with grammar. “Sir, I am here to enlist in the military.” Diction was probably too subtle a jab for the sub-human to comprehend, but no matter.
The man turned his head, sucked snot into his mouth, and spat loudly onto the ground. This was an insult in any culture, and Hafgan had to actively work to restrain himself, his hands longing to grasp the spear strapped to his back and introduce this man to the sharp end.
“I ain’t allowed to turn you away, Duke’s orders. Kin you write?” asked the man with disdain, sliding a paper forward. Hafgan glanced at it—a standard enlistment agreement. Enlist for one year, payment chits supplied once every two months, desertion punishable by death. The typical military rhetoric. Hafgan signed the document with a false name; it wasn’t as if anyone would check.
The man fumbled around with some files, apparently able to read and write. Surprising. With a smirk, he handed Hafgan a square ticket that was covered with a series of numbers.
“We’d got a special unit just for you goats, even you wannabes. Report immediately to camp outside of the west gate.” The man stood, and Hafgan noticed that his leg was missing from the knee down, replaced with a hollow iron peg. Again, he gathered snot and spat at Hafgan’s feet. Hafgan clenched his fists and bared his fangless-teeth at the man, who stumbled backwards at the sight. Without another glance, Hafgan turned and stalked toward the west gate.
---
Since leaving the mountains, Hafgan had never seen so many Wasmer gathered in the same place. A makeshift military camp had sprung up outside of the west gate, complete with lean-tos, cookfires, an improvised blacksmith, and an awful smell that was either the cooking or the latrines. There were few humans amidst the dozens, if not hundreds, of Wasmer, and those who were present were shouting out orders, or reluctantly going about their tasks with their heads bowed. Hafgan imagined that working with Wasmer was a duty used to punish soldiers or to haze new recruits. Such did the Rostanians see his race.
Based on how the Rostanian military had historically been run, Hafgan known that the Wasmer would be built into a separate unit from the rest of the military, a unit that operated largely independently, following Wasmer rules and traditions. The separation ultimately made his job easier.
The Wasmer milling about were just as disparate as the humans in Rostane, although most of these humans would never take the time to notice the differences in terms of appearance, interests, talents, and intellectance. Humans had this tendency to see anything different from themselves as a uniform stereotypes with little variation. Hafgan wondered if he’d himself suffered from this shortcoming back before he began living in Rostane. Almost certainly, though, he had since learned his lesson. The Wasmer who he saw in the camp seemed to represent a wide range of trades and skill sets. He saw one, a hulking, hairy brute, working the bellows at the blacksmith, while another short and slender Wasmer poured iron into arrowhead molds. Two Wasmer were arguing in their native, sing-song tongue about Ardian politics. And, nearby, a large ring had formed and two Wasmer were wrestling.
One wrestler was older—the long, braided hair on both his head and his face was mostly gray, although he’d likely been fair-haired to begin with. He was tall and sinewy, moving like a man much younger. And indeed, across from him was a man who was much younger. A pup, really. But, a really large pup, rippling with heavy musculature, a blistering scar across his bare, hairless chest. Unlike what most humans believed, Wasmer were just as likely to have, or not have, body hair as the standard Rostanian male. Just another assumption.
The pair circled each other, arms raised defensively, careful not to cross their feet and risk losing their balance. Each fighter made the occasional feint, but the slow circling continued for quite some time, creating a build-up of excitement within the crowd. Just as the crowd began to grumble, the young one lunged, his arms reaching for the gray-haired’s leg and simultaneously trying to hook the other leg. A standard wrestling move, and one that the gray-haired one was prepared for. He gave a quick side-step, slapping aside the young one’s extended arms and forcing him to stand upright by locking his own arms against the young one’s chest. The pup wrapped his much bulkier arms over his opponent’s shoulders and the two stood straining against each other. At a casual glance, it was an odd embrace, perhaps a son ecstatic to see his father. But, a trained eye could see the minute changes in stance and pressure; one would push hard to the left, and the other would respond by slightly lowering the hip and pulling on the right side. This stalemate lasted for a time, but the smaller, more experienced man had both inside control as well as leverage. He suddenly dropped his hips, and pulled on one side with all of his strength, flinging the off-balance pup to the ground and landing on him, the gray-haired one’s hands forced against his opponent’s neck. The young one went limp in submission and the crowd cheered as he stood, offering a hand to the fallen fighter. The pup took the hand, grinning as he stood. There was little shame in losing to a master.
This would be as good a place as any to start. It might even be the place to start, judging from the look of things.
After the crowd cleared some, Hafgan approached the elder warrior with a half smile, hands spread in the traditional greeting of the Wasmer. The man began to return the greeting, smile creasing his braided face, but then abruptly stopped. He folded his arms, veins visible across his wiry muscles.
He spat at the ground in front of Hafgan’s feet, and his smile altered into a dual-fanged scowl. A lot of spitting, today.
“I do not need a budredda in my presence,” he snarled, the musical language of the Wasmer flowing from between his clenched teeth. The phrase “budredda” was a new word added to the language—a crippling insult derived from the word “scum” or “filth,” but specifically referencing human pretenders. As Hafgan was, made evident by his filed down fangs, and the fact that he responded in Ardian.
No need to be polite anymore, then.
“I imagine it be embarrassing to be in the presence of a better.” Not ideal, but clear enough that this Wasmer would understand the insult. Noticing the man’s clenched fists, Hafgan knew he had hit the mark. It didn’t take much, with fighting caste
Wasmer, to get a rise.
“You little shit, daring to insult me. Why are you here? Don’t you have enough humans to fuck you in the ass?” he said in Wasmer, stepping forward. The crowd began to re-form around the two of them, other Wasmer stopping their work upon hearing the insult.
“It be me who does the fucking, and I be here to do the same with you…” he reached back and patted his spear, “…with this.”
The bravado and insults were relatively standard among Wasmer warriors, but this gray-hair had some real venom in his look and manner. The military culture among his birth people was one of the reasons that Hafgan had left, truth be told. The constant challenges, maneuvering for rank, and infighting. Not that he’d had much of a choice about leaving.
“Weapons it is,” called the gray, lithe warrior, pandering to the crowd, who let out a ragged cheer. “I will not be chastised for murder, however, by those we fight with. They shall be blunt.”
At a glance, a youth from the crowd rushed over to the blacksmith, procuring two spears without the iron heads—essentially quarterstaves. He gave one to each warrior, first to the gray-hair with deference, then tossing the second at Hafgan’s feet with some contempt. To the youth’s chagrin, Hafgan caught it perfectly balanced on his boot, flipping it into the air and catching it with little effort.
“I am Siarl Llywelyn, warleader of Wasmer at this camp.”
Perfect. Hafgan couldn’t have been luckier, stumbling into this wrestling match.
“I like to know the name of the men I defeat, even if they are half-men. Budredda.” Siarl hefted the wood over his shoulder, not bothering to check for weight and balance. Such confidence.
“I be… am Hafgan Iwan. You want rest before we are beginning? I not want you to use fatigue as excuse for losing,” Hafgan continued, somewhat poorly, in Ardian. He wanted no question about the outcome of this contest, and he wanted to appear unshakable, though internally his guts were roiling. It had been some time since his last challenge, and he loathed these contests.
“I need no rest to set another budredda aside. Easier than cleaning the latrine.” Siarl gave a smug laugh at his own joke. “Give us some room.”
A great number of Wasmer had gathered by now, perhaps hearing that their warleader was set to fight a budredda with weapons—always a sight. By definition, the warleader was expected to be the most skilled warrior, and rarely did such a challenge arise. The massing crowd was good, though; Hafgan needed as many as possible to see this.
Without any fanfare, the battle began. Siarl took up a fighting stance and began to move to the side while Hafgan just stood still, holding his stave in two hands out in front. Siarl did not wait for Hafgan to prepare as was proper, but instead launched an attack, darting forward with a great sideswipe of the stave, giving him an incredible range and a great deal of leverage. There was a great “crack!” and the crowd visibly flinched at the impact.
Hafgan had shifted, driving his own stave into the ground, solidly catching the blow. Siarl recoiled from the unexpected resistance, but rallied quickly. He used the momentum from the recoil to spin around, facial braids streaking behind him, this time striking low. Hafgan had little difficulty leaping over this predictable attack and then ducking under the follow-up. Siarl stepped back, leveling Hafgan an appraising look, perhaps with some grudging respect in his eyes. Hafgan spat on the ground—it was his turn for a show of contempt—and Siarl leapt forward with a fierce series of attacks.
Had any one of the blows landed, Hafgan would at least have had a broken bone or shattered skull. This was nearly as dangerous as fighting with sharpened weapons. But he found his center, attaining heddwichen, the meditative emptiness learned in his Dyn Doethas apprenticeship, and pushed down the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Though leading in the military might be based on skill with weapons, some—like himself—were given advantages early in life. Siarl, despite his general prowess, had not been trained by the Dyn Doethas and was outmatched by Hafgan, though not by as much as Hafgan had expected. Siarl was no mean fighter, his attacks showing adaptation and creativity. And he had not given himself completely over to the rage that Hafgan had tried to ignite.
Hafgan continued to block and dodge, dancing around the circle, occasionally digging his stave into the ground to propel himself forward or upward. Siarl had not slowed, however, and was coming closer to landing a powerful blow that could quickly end the fight. No mean fighter, indeed. Hafgan needed to end this in a hurry, though the feeling of desperation barely breached his heddwichen. It was more of a gentle decision, flowing into his mind like a cool, shifting breeze.
He shifted from his defensive stance to one of offense. He began striking back with an apparent fury, his stave moving in a blur as it cracked again and again against Siarl’s own weapon. The two continued to exchange blows amidst a circle of onlookers, with Siarl fighting defensively now, having fewer opportunities to riposte. In the back of Hafgan’s subconscious, he was aware that there was now a hush over the previously-rowdy audience. The sound of staves slapping together, coupled with heavy breathing and grunts of exertion, was all that could be heard. Hafgan pressed his brief advantage with everything he had, sacrificing protection for a more furious attack.
The fighters flung themselves together, each swinging with force. There was an audible snapping as both fighters simultaneously landed a blow. Hafgan felt his opponent’s stave smash into his ribs, bruising or breaking at least one bone, but needing to have made such a sacrifice in order to strike Siarl with the force necessary to disarm him. His own stave broke Siarl’s wrist, the man’s stave flying into the crowd, end over end. With a grunt, Siarl fell to one knee, grasping his injury. Hafgan stepped forward, teeth clenched in pain, and rested the end of his stave lightly against his opponent’s neck.
What most fighters didn’t understand was that it was easier to kill than disarm.
Siarl met his eyes, his own gaze filled with anger, pain, and contempt. Hafgan thought, for a moment, that the man would refuse to yield, and he braced himself to fend off another attack. But, the man ultimately lowered his eyes, giving a slight bow of his head in acquiescence.
Hafgan had made a bitter enemy. Truth be told, he had likely made an enemy of many Wasmer in the audience—Siarl was obviously well-respected, and the shock in the faces of the crowd was rapidly being replaced with anger, silence replaced with bitter murmurs. However, he had accomplished his goal, albeit with one additional broken bone than intended. He surveyed the people massed around him.
“What is all this? What’s going on?” demanded a loud voice. A human voice.
An unarmored man forced his way into the circle, flanked by four armored Wolf Knights who glared at the Wasmer as he passed. He was wearing a wolf emblem above his heart—this indicating a captain’s rank in the military—and his clothes were very fine. And he was incredibly thin, but not in the manner of a lithe warrior; rather, he seemed bereft of useful muscle. He barely filled out his clothing; in fact, the scabbarded sword at his side looking almost ludicrously large. Likely a golden officer, if anything. The only other defining feature of the man was his slightly crooked nose, indicating that he had actually been in a fight at some point.
“Why are none of you working? Do you not know that we are preparing for war?” The man gestured angrily, seemingly amazed that few Wasmer gave him much heed. He looked around and finally noticed Siarl kneeling in front of Hafgan.
“In-fighting among soldiers is not allowed in the Rostanian military. We, at least, are better than animals.” A very brave, or very stupid, man, to less-than-subtly insult a race when completely surrounded. Granted, many of the surrounding Wasmer likely didn’t speak Adrian well enough to understand the affront, but the man’s imperious tone was clear. “If we had the time, I would have you both lashed. There is to be no more of this. Do you hear me?” He turned in a slow circle, surveying the Wasmer. “Who is in charge of this rabble?”
There was a long tense silence, and Siarl let
out a growl mixed with a moan as he regained his feet. He twitched his neck toward Hafgan then and stalked off past the crowd, men shrinking from his anger. Hafgan should have felt some pride at defeating the tested warrior, but instead felt only guilt and regret. That was always the way of it. Even when it wasn’t a farce, like his involvement in this army. Regardless, he stepped forward, nodding to the crooked-nosed man.
“I be… am warleader here. These men answer to me.” His meditative state had faded and his damaged rib felt like a dagger in his side, digging deeper with each breath. But he was unwilling to reveal the pain, even if he did want to curl up on the ground.
The man gave Hafgan, who was at least a head taller than himself, an appraising glance, sniffing loudly from his crooked nose.
“I have the misfortune of being your commanding officer. Captain Sigmund Fitra. Given your rank as… warleader… you are awarded the loose equivalent of lieutenant. Congratulations,” he said. Even with his limited understanding of the intricacies of the language, Hafgan could hear the sarcasm. Nonetheless, Rostanian military personnel had to be managed with respect if this gambit was to succeed.
“Yes, Captain. Thank you, sir,” he said. Elevated from civilian to military lieutenant in just a day. Quite the accomplishment. It was amazing that a second desperate plan by The House was actually coming to fruition.
“What was your name, Wasmer?”
“Hafgan Arkon, sir.” Was that the pseudonym he’d used when enlisting? It really didn’t matter.
“Well, Arkon… you are to attend me at a staff meeting tomorrow at sundown in the main camp. You’ll be…” he regarded the dispersing crowd with some disgust, “…my mouthpiece to this rabble. I trust you can handle this?” He pointed at Hafgan’s chest with a gloved hand, revealing a surprising characteristic—the man was four-fingered, a victim of The House. Hafgan wondered briefly how that had come about.
Solace Lost Page 29
