She was as old as his mother was and he had killed her.
It was the greatest crime in the Four Factions.
What would the Primary have to say about that?
He swallowed the shock and met the blow of the brute at his right. He ripped the man’s sword from his glove and plunged his blade deep leaving one more attacker to make a show of. The flow of war surged through him and a frenzy took hold. He was Alpha and he was unstoppable. He wondered if the few days’ wait had indeed driven him to a madness. He grasped that madness because fuk it, what else was he going to do?
“Come on,” he roared in a voice he didn’t recognise. He didn’t recognise the laugh that followed either but he felt just grand about both. As if some historic jest had just been delivered in a tavern surrounded by his closest friends, he roared manically and the eyes in the trees blinked a few times and continued staring. This was not usual at all. His laughing echoed loudly and he waited for the final fighter to make his move and when he did, it was poetry in motion.
The brute charged and Erroh blocked with his right and spinning with the momentum, swung with all the strength in his left across his enemy’s neck. The steel cut through cleanly and by chance, his second sword caught the liberated head before it fell to the ground.
The legend of Erroh had its first sonnet.
He raised the bleeding head of the brute to Jeremiah somewhere above in the heavens. The blood dripped down the blade and onto his fingers. He wiped it across his forehead and only then realised he was still laughing hysterically. Underneath all the horror and the madness of battle, deep down where nobody could see, Erroh could still smell the faint aroma of Lea and he held her close to his mind as he put on the show. He dropped the sword, freed the head with his foot before giving it a satisfying kick down the slope, and sheathed his swords slowly before turning his back from the entire army and walking back up the slope. He fell silent and climbed back up through the ramparts accepting little help from his brothers.
In the Shadow of a Giant
“Jeremiah was a good man. We should aim to die with as much bravery,” he said meeting many eyes of his stunned Warriors. They waited for one more rousing speech, but there was little to be said. He had spoken with his blades and the enemy were still reeling from his voice. He popped the lid on a nearby barrel full of water and poured a ladle full over his face and hands. Around him, his Warriors returned to their positions. Nothing more to see here, friends. Back to work.
“Are you okay?” whispered Quig.
“Just want to wash this shit off my face,” Erroh replied, scrubbing some of the blood from his skin. There was some under his fingernails. He should have cut them sooner.
The Quig patted him on the back roughly. “That was incredible. Probably as good as me,” he said laughing loudly.
“I put you in the lead with five,” Aireys said.
“It’ll give them a few things to think about at least,” said Cass watching the sky, the men, and the ramparts, anywhere but out among the spikes where his friend still lay.
“Would be fine if they believed there was a whole flock of Alphas hiding back here,” Erroh said shaking the water away. He wasn’t clean. He’d never be again.
“I wonder when they’ll surrender?” wondered Quig. He blinked away his worry and resumed the mantle of legend he would become.
“If it were me I would send a small number on foot to test our armour,” suggested Cass. They agreed with silent nods. It was early evening before the attack came.
Lea had arrows everywhere. At least two dozen were lanced in the ground in easy reach waiting patiently for her wrath. She held another twenty in a quiver on her back, nestled in between her two short swords. Many more quivers rested against a log behind her. Along the top, her boys were equally supplied. If nothing else, this was a town stocked for a siege. All these deadly projectiles lovingly created for faux honour in the tournament would now fulfil their true potential. She counted the arrows in front of her and decided that if every one of them were unleashed in anger, it was a life well spent. She would step into the darkness with revenge on her lips and boldness in her heart. She spotted the attack.
The brute sprinted out from the protection of the trees. He roared menacingly, carrying a sword and shield in both his hands. He led the war cries. A thunderous roar imbued with pride, hatred, and bile. A second figure swiftly followed and then a third carrying one of the black and red banners. He waved it wildly and many more emerged from behind the line of green. They broke from three separate parts but all towards the same destination. They carried no crossbows and charged up without any type of discipline, spreading out through the spikes in one manic charge. She counted over fifty in the first wave. She notched an arrow and waited. Her mind was awash with terror, hate, and doubt. She thought of the fallen town of Cathbar, of the burnings and then she thought of her first victim and dread took hold. What if she froze again? Countless eyes from below the ramparts and across the gap waited for her lead. She looked down for Erroh but he wasn’t watching her like the rest. He watched the attackers and his weapons weren’t even drawn. He’d counted the numbers too and he was waiting for the mayhem.
He would not need to fight.
He trusted her to lead.
Twenty feet from the barricade she led. The cur kept running for a few seconds with an arrow in his neck before collapsing in a heap near the bottom of the wall. She offered the kill up to the little girl buried in a grave she would never see again. Then she notched another arrow and let it loose on another invader. He died instantly as Baby sent the arrow through his unprotected forehead. This was easier than hitting quail. Around her, the archers rained down as many arrows as they could. While lacking the years of intense training from exquisite masters and drunken tournaments, they still managed carnage with their own lessons learned. As the screams of the injured and dying filled the air, each archer showed more daring. They were cold and they were calculated because that was how their Alphaline sister behaved and they showed no prejudice. All who charged died. The battle was over before it ever really begun. The last brute to fall was struck by seven arrows. A costly expense but the arguments over who claimed the kill were priceless. All that remained were the moaning few at the bottom who had not fully perished. Erroh raised his hand and the archers withdrew.
“A kill is a kill,” Erroh suggested coldly and a few warriors led by Quig dropped down and set upon the defenceless brutes with grim efficiency. They took to killing better than most normal people and it was a fine thing indeed. Erroh heard a Warrior scream out “three” in delight as he struck down his third victim bleeding profusely from a couple arrows in his back. It seemed to lift the rest into their own frenzy. Nobody wanted to come last in this contest.
The assault was annihilated with at least fifty aggressors dead at the hands of the defenders. They were fifty souls that would never smile, laugh, cry, or hurt ever again. It didn’t matter that they deserved to die. He glanced up at the dark clouds above as night drew closer and he wondered that they might indeed survive the first day after all. It was one more day to breathe, one more day to kiss her, and one more day for the convoy to get further away. It had been nothing more than an exploratory assault but he still took heart as the sun went down and no second attack came.
It was a terrible task but he dared not let such grotesque endeavours take the fire from his warriors. That said, Aireys and Quig had insisted that they aid him. On three, they gripped each body and flung them over the wall of spikes into the raging water. They did it in silence and took turns casting nervous glances down towards the woods. Most bodies floated away while the heavier armoured ones were likely dragged along the river’s bed by the strong current.
“I’d prefer a funeral pyre to a watery grave,” muttered Aireys, as they climbed back over the wall.
The invading army lit fires far back from the woods and settled in for the night. In Keri, the mood was lighter than anyone could have hoped. Err
oh allowed himself a smile, receiving the many pats on the back while walking the line across the top of the barricade. No lives lost in the first skirmish. If only Jeremiah could take heart from such a feat. There would be deaths come dawn but they had earned a day for the town, so nothing else mattered.
Around midnight Lea appeared from her perch, a goddess sent by the gods, as spoils for a task well done. She touched his neck tenderly and placed her forehead to his. While a few Warriors kept first watch, the remaining men sat and ate heartily. Quig led the revelry with his boasting. His scythe had “tasted the blood of lesser men and hungered for more.”
“After we were finished with them they could barely fight back,” argued Lea, much to the joy of her archers.
“A few still had fight left in them,” he argued before proclaiming that he would not clean his blade because “red brought out his eyes.”
Then the tallying up of the dead began and according to the numbers given, ninety-seven attackers in all were felled in the assault. Quig demanded a recount and even though they laughed and mocked, all the pain was evident upon each man’s face. They struggled with the horrors of what had occurred earlier but they found comfort in each other’s company. They found comfort knowing they were among brothers. They found comfort knowing they would not die alone. They found comfort laughing in the face of darkness.
In all the carousing, one solitary figure in his long cloak sat on top of the barrier. It was not his watch but he wanted to be there. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. It was the years of worry catching up with him. Keeping it short seemed to stem the decline somewhat. He took a few short breaths and signalled the archers above him.
"I’m taking a quick walk,” he whispered and slid down the barricade in near silence. Forgetting his issue with hair loss for the time being, Cass crept down the slope through the spikes.
The stroll seemed to take an eternity and he had never been more scared in his life. It was the head of Jeremiah he found first and after a bitter search in the near darkness, he found the rest of him. He wrapped the head in the white flag of peace and placed it upon the body’s chest. Ignoring the revulsion, he began dragging his friend back home. It took him longer than he thought. He took a break half way up and regretted the added weight of his armour. Perhaps many things in the world would have been different had he not worn it for this distasteful task. He leaned against a spike, caught his breath, and as he did, caught some movement near the spikes of the riverbank. It was a long dark shape and it was crawling up towards the ramparts. The Regulator sat and watched in bewilderment. The form was small and feminine in appearance. She was gathering intelligence. Even though she was unarmed and wore no armour, a cold thought occurred to him. She simply had to die for this was war.
He had watched the Alpha cut a female down without hesitation or remorse and some of the bodies at the bottom of the slope had been female so why did he alone struggle? Was this another sign that he was even less of a man than he thought? He stepped on a twig and she flinched. He could see her long matted blond hair and he could see his blade in the moonlight. This felt wrong.
She may have been beautiful but he couldn’t tell.
Cass collapsed at the bottom of the wall on the side of Keri. A kind hand reached out and offered water, which he took gratefully and drank between precious deep breaths. Quig oversaw the recovery of Jeremiah and they pulled him back to familiar territory. Cass tried to wash the blood away. He was covered in her. She had not died after the first strike and instead of peacefully slipping into the darkness, she had raged against the inevitable. Like a wild beast, she had struck at her killer with a dagger. Were it not for his armour he would have bled out long before he could make it back. Now her final strikes had left nothing but a few scrapes. The final blow had left the little sharp blade embedded uselessly in his chest plate. He had killed a female. He hoped it would be his last.
“I have another to add to my tally,” he said in a voice that sounded strange and lost.
Erroh yawned and stretched his arms out wide. It was a harder task to achieve with his mate asleep across his chest. They were near the battlements in the closest patch of soft ground. He had woken up in worse places. He watched her wake to the cruel world they both faced. She blinked her beautiful eyes a few times and then smiled warmly as they met his. The moment could not last as realisation struck her and he had no words to offer. In an instant though, she hid the fear and kissed his forehead.
“I like you,” she whispered.
“I like you too,” he whispered back.
He had a bad feeling about today. It was early and there were plenty of hours to assault the town. Some of his warriors were going to die in the hours ahead.
He was right.
One of the archers spotted a large group of Riders taking to their mounts and riding out into the wastes to find a break in the mountain range. The ground vibrated ominously until the last of the brutes disappeared and Erroh put worrying thoughts from his mind. The nearest route through was a thin pass, well over a day’s hard ride through unforgiving terrain. Even then, it was quite possible to miss. Had he not made a few wrong turns in his life? It was a small matter. Even if the Riders did make it through, Keri would probably have fallen long before. Regardless, he sent Cass and another Regulator to watch the pass and returned to the blockade to wait and watch the forest and the sky for movement and a turn of the weather. He closed his eyes and donned the warrior’s skin. He unsheathed Vengeance and Mercy from behind his back and began to practice a variation on the form Jeroen had taught him months ago in a different life. He had come so far in such a short time. Eyes along the line watched the show with interest and he was eager to impress. He caught a glimpse of Lea up above as he spun and he marvelled how much she pushed him on with her own ability. He imagined Magnus would be proud but not at all impressed.
When his father was his age he had already invented the great weapons known as “The Clieve,” had gone on to conquer the two islands of his birth and was already eyeing the Four Factions for himself. They were fine deeds indeed. Defending Keri would barely be a footnote in Magnus’s great legacy but deep down, Erroh knew his father would approve greatly of his actions. Magnus would have stood and bled with these brave Warriors as well. The only difference being, he would have found a way to survive the oncoming storm. Once again, he wished he was here with him now. Just to say goodbye and perhaps ask if there was any way he could avoid dying.
It was the little things.
He completed his routine and sheathed his blades as a runner brought steaming cofe for the Warriors along the top.
“There are worse ways to start our last day,” said Quig loudly before blowing the steaming cup to a likeable temperature.
“It won’t be our last day today my friend,” said Erroh and almost believed himself.
“Either way, I plan to better your score,” the big man declared sparking last moments of heated wagers.
“And how will you feel beating an Alpha but losing to a girl?” said Aireys, climbing up beside her companions. She sat at the edge of the blockade, rested her sword against her thigh, and sipped a cofe of her own.
“I see no girl, I only see Aireys,” Quig jested.
“Emir thought I was a fine enough girl,” Aireys quipped back swiftly though her face dropped at the mention of their absent friend. She looked away in an attempt to compose herself.
“He thought you the finest girl that ever lived,” Quig said, and squeezed her shoulder.
“I hope he finds someone far better than me to warm his heart and someone even bigger than you to protect him from himself” she said quietly.
From the trees, there began the stirrings of movement and lamenting thoughts of friends were swiftly forgotten. The morning’s serenity exploded as the daunting and foreboding sound of battle horns suddenly filled the valley.
The Tale of the Brigand
The noise reverberated through the valley down into the souls
of every listener. It was a cacophony of dread whose first few notes caused more disheartenment to the Warriors than the death of Jeremiah. This type of warfare couldn’t be attacked with a pointed stick. All they could do was prepare for the inevitable assault.
Erroh took two long strips of cloth and began wrapping Mercy’s handle tightly against his wrist and then the same with Vengeance. Who knew how slippery his grip would become in the hours ahead? Quig joined him at the summit.
“That sound rattles my bones. It makes me fear the worst,” he said loud enough that only Erroh could hear.
“You should be fearful. I don’t think you’ll come close to besting my score,” Erroh replied.
“Only the last of us to fall will ever know the outcome of this contest,” Quig said sadly.
“You could have died a rich farmer, but a forgotten one, too,” said Erroh, testing the weight in his blades. The cloth would hold.
The horns played their solitary note for hours. Lea eyed the horn blowers with venom. They were disciplined and skilled. She counted at least a dozen spread out in the green. They would play for as long as their breaths allowed before one or two at most would fall away to fill their lungs without dropping the note. To the untrained ear, it was a wall of noise. Terrifying, intimidating and godlike. To one watching it was a simple regimented tactic. She knew how to silence the entire set of performers but that was their final card to play so she let the horns continue. Azel, the archer closest to her, bit his nails in irritation. It was something to do, she supposed.
Quig started to hum the beginning of a song to stave off the sound attacking his sanity. He was no talented singer and he struggled with the tune but anything was better than the horns. His favourite song was a fine ancient song about a man defiant, even as his jailers tortured him until he escaped. It was one of four songs he knew by heart. It seemed fitting.
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