He was dressed in a green, brown jerkin over doublets with long green leggings. He towered over his three most trusted generals and Ceriuz. The atmosphere in the tent was tense as they pored over a parchment map placed on a large wooden table. Four braziers with flickering flames served the twin purpose of illuminating the King’s tent and providing heat and solace from the winter cold.
‘This is where we are now,’ the King said, pointing at a spot on the map. ‘Osterley's men are just a day’s march from us on the crest of this valley.’
He glanced up at his two Generals; tough battle-weary men, hoping that a win in this last battle would claim all the spoils. ‘Tomorrow we march to meet them; to war against them; to annihilate them, may the Gods be with us.
General Murchees spoke. ‘They outnumber us 2 to 1 and have the advantage of camping above us.’
He was in his 50’s with short curly almost exclusively white hair, and a hardened face crisscrossed by scars.
‘So what?’ Daarrk, the King’s brother - my uncle - said. Much like the King, he was tall with long brown hair and black eyes that gleamed when he was excited.
‘The Pitsmen are twice the men those offal are. We must take them tomorrow.’
The King accessed his men and said nothing. He agreed with his younger more impetuous brother for a change but was wise enough to seek counsel anyway.
The shortest and oldest man there - for Ceriuz the sorcerer was not viewed as a mere man - was general Burday. He lifted his broad shoulders.
‘I would prefer if the odds were better. But news reaching us is that two enemy infantries are a day and a half’s march away from reinforcing Osterlay’s force. If we dally, it will be twice as hard.
The King turned to Ceriuz, the wizard, his adviser, mentor, and friend. Ceriuz lifted a slim hand and stroked his long, luxuriant silvery beard.
‘I am not a military man,’ he said in a clear voice that sounded as if it belonged to a man 60 years younger and not the 120 years he was rumored to have lived. ‘But it seems to me we have no choice.’
Satisfied with the counsel the King spoke. ‘Indeed we don’t. This undoubtedly will be our last stand. If we fail, our beautiful kingdom of Westalavia and all the adjoining Towns and Villages, including our allies and vassal states to the Far East who depend on us are doomed.’
He lifted a goblet of mulled wine to his lips. ‘Winter is upon us, and Osterlay’s armies have run out of food and water.’
He turned to Daarrk and smiled. It was his brother's idea to send small forces to villages that lined the enemy’s path and burn their crops and supplies of food, even poisoning streams and wells. It was a ruthless but genius move as spies had reported that Osterlay’s men had stomachs like greyhounds and low morale that accompanies the travails of starvation.
‘So now, they must go through us to get food. If the Osterlays cannot…they have to turn back and then, they are likely to be caught in the winter. If they lose the battle tomorrow as they will -’ He paused for effect. Fixing everybody with his intense gleaming black eyes that made men flinch and turned women into shy giggling maidens, ‘They lose the war.’
General Murchees sighed. He was a good man but growing weary of war. He had joined the army when he was 16, a thin slip of a lad with an eye for glory; that was 35 years ago, and he had long tired of the horrors of war. First with the King’s Father, old King Jaks the first and now with his son. He loved both of them dearly but wished their accursed line wasn’t so reckless, blood-thirsty and eager to wage war.
‘How sure are we that the reinforcements won’t get there before us? You underestimate the Osterley vermin. When they want to, they can move across the land as well as any Pitsmen force, and they know that the fate of this war depends on them.’
Daarrk showed his perfect white teeth. He was two years younger than his brother the King, but they might as well be twins. They were both tall and sinewy with lean, wiry muscles. Their skin, like their mothers, was tanned and glowed with health. They inherited their Mother’s faces, slim with high cheekbones and expressive dark eyes but that was where the resemblance with their mother stopped.
Unfortunately Murchee thought, they did not have their mothers even temperament, her love for the music, arts, and humanities; they could not be described as cruel like their father but Jaks the second and his brother Daarrk possessed a burning desire to prove themselves through war that enabled them to perform great acts of cruelty and callousness that astounded even a grizzled veteran like himself.
‘A minute comrades,’ Daarrk said, and his long legs took him out the tent swiftly. I shivered as his shadow passed close to me and gave a silent shriek imperceptible to the human ear. He returned with two men. Murchee winced, and Booday growled. Untas!!
Not any old Unta Ceriuz thought his curiosity piqued (war stratagems bored him greatly) but the head of the Untas (for they had no true King) Kroos and his deputy, a vile old man - even by Unta standards - Bammam.
The Untas surveyed the opulent tent contemptuously.
‘Come hither my friends,’ the King said, ushering them in. They moved on short, muscular legs until they were by the King’s side. Both races of men wrinkled their noses in distaste. The Untas, could not bear the sickly sweet smell that came from the oiled, sleek, perfumed, Pitsmen and the Pitsmen, railed at the vile odor of the Untas who believed bathing was something to be done a few times in a year.
‘My God do these people not bathe? ’General Burday said beneath his breath. He was a man, even by Pitsmen standards, of impeccable hygiene who started and finished off his day in a hot soapy bath-tub being attended to by a bevy of maidens, the rancid stench of the Untas made him heave.
The King shot him a dark look that commanded silence. ‘What are they doing here Daarrk?’ Murchee said, rigid as a post. There was a sudden atmosphere of tension as the men regarded each other. The two Untas were almost identical, brown-skinned, a head shorter than even General Burday, with big bulbous heads crowned by a shock of unruly dark hair. Their eyes were blacker than black and their faces, arms, legs, and bodies were marked by scarification and weird ancient tattoos.
‘This is the head of the Untas Kroos and his trusted adviser Bammam,’ Jaks said. The two bowed slightly, their faces set in an ugly scowl. ‘They look far from happy to be here,’ Ceriuz muttered to himself. What odd creatures they are. At that moment Ceriuz jerked his head to one side and stared straight at me and a frown creased his ancient features.
The two were archetypical Unta males, a head shorter than even the shortest Pitmen with wiry tanned bodies and bandy legs. They wore animal furs and leggings with fur boots. They were both unarmed, which wasn’t surprising as no one could be in the presence of the King of Pitsmen with a weapon, but Ceriuz knew that if there was a melee between them, the Untas - vicious, deadly, lightning quick and deceptively strong - could hold their own; even against several Pitsmen.
‘They are here at the King’s behest,’ Daarrk said, enjoying the suspense.
‘We don’t have all day. All we need is the word, and we will act, but first, we want to see the bounty,’ said Kroos in a deep low growl.
Ceriuz chuckled as he saw the displeasure on the General’s faces. Daarrk and the King seemed slightly amused as well. While Pitsmen were clean and bathed every day, Untas believed that dirt and grime were healthy and aided the wellbeing of a Man. While a Pitsman, especially of high nobility had impeccable manners and etiquette, the Untas were brusque, to the point of being rude and spoke their mind all the time. Pitsmen lived by a strict hierarchy from the most wretched beggar on the muddy streets of Westlavia to the highest of nobility culminating in a King who was all but God while to the Untas, all men were equal and had a say in all matters of the land. It was only when a dispute could not be settled that Kroos, the leader, was called in and even then he was frequently challenged and often had to resort to violence to enforce the law.
The differences were myriad, and Cer
iuz knew them all because when he was a young man (well 84), he had spent a year living among the Untas. They resided in an archipelago far out in the sea and had done so in total isolation for hundreds of years, until a merchant Pitsman boat had been blown off course and landed on their shores. How many years ago was that Ceriuz thought? Even for him, it was eons ago. He had been a mere apprentice, barely able to summons a flame from his mind when that happened. The Pitsmen returned with tales of a strange people that resided on several small Islands, full of forests and strange beasts. Ceriuz remembered being in the Kings court in the reign of Jaks the first, beguiled by tales of the Seamen, who told of a fertile land infested with all manners of beasts, big and small - the most fearsome of them (apart from the Untas) being the Red snouted Dragon!
‘We shall not have such discussions on an empty stomach,’ the King said.
He clapped his hands and a servant from the kitchen emerged and disappeared just as quickly after a quick command. Five minutes later servants entered the tent, carefully made bare the vast oak table and laid it with red linen clothe. Soon more servants filed in with steaming dishes of food and drink. This continued until the table was laden with roasted pork dripping with gravy, a massive hunk of beef, an enormous bowl of assorted vegetables and roots, honey covered, bite-sized pigeons stacked on each other, stewed venison - a personal favorite of the Kings - and several tankards filled with Pitsmen brewed beer, chilled with snow from the mountains of Northern Westlavia.
Chapter 7
The Unta’s eyes bulged, and stomach growled. ‘If there’s one thing these moist men know how to do,’ Bammam said in his native tongue, licking his thin crusty lips with a thick pink tongue, ‘It’s how to cook.’
‘Aye Bammam,’ Kroos said, ‘And produce infinitely beddable women.’ Bammam followed Kroos’ hungry eyes to a buxom blond wench filling a jug with mulled wine. Her heavy heaving milk white bosoms strained against her bodice. They both eyed her with lusty admiration.
‘Young, tall, svelte with big bosoms and wide hips,’ Bammam said his voice throaty. ‘Still, give me an Untas wench any day; wiry, flat-chested and evil-tongued they may be, but they can ride as well as any man and run a household like a military regiment…aye?’ Bammam concluded.
‘Aye…let us eat. The accursed Pitmen, await us.’
During the dinner, there was little talk of any importance. The King and Daarrk sat at the head of the table and laughed as a rapidly filling belly, and alcohol lightened their mood. Ceriuz, who - much to the Unta’s and even the Pitsmen’s astonishment - didn’t eat meat, nibbled on cauliflower and some seeds. Murchee quaffed food and drink with relish, but Burday, who unfortunately was sat right across the table from the two Unta’s could only look on horrified as to the beastly manner they tore into meat, licked their lips, belched and farted.
‘How can you eat with those beasts devouring food like wild animals?’ He spat out at General Murchee. Murchee grinned.
Borday and his exaggerated ways were the butt of all jokes around their circle.
‘If you are not eating that,’ he said, pointing at the venison on Borday’s plate, can I have it?’ Borday shot him a look of pure malice before sliding the wooden plate to Murchee. Murchee laughed, speared the meat with a sharp dagger and tore it apart with big gleaming white teeth.
An hour later, with bellies full of food and not a little drink, Jaks spoke. ‘Now that we have filled our bellies let us talk on why we are here.’
Kroos straightened. He had moderated his drink with the aim of keeping his wits, while Bammam was half drunk. ‘Yes let’s,’ he growled. His Pitsman was impeccable; Bammam spoke it far less proficiently but well enough.
They were still at the table; it had been cleared and wiped clean, and all the servants had disappeared so they could talk freely.
‘Tomorrow, at dawn, we march to confront our enemy. They have the advantage of numbers and geography, but we have no choice,’ Jaks said. He turned to Murchee and Boday. ‘You might be wondering why our friends from the Islands are here…it is because we have purchased their services.’
Boday squirmed in his seat and Murchee looked up sharply.
‘Tis not the first time we have used the Untas as mercenary, but why the secrecy?’
Jaks got up and walked to Murchee; he slammed two hands on his shoulders and squeezed affectionately.
‘Indeed, you two are my most trusted aides, but the secrecy was necessary. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and Daarrk and I thought it necessary to keep this between us.’
‘My men are half a day’s march away, camped on the other side of the Xryzz,’ Kroos said.
The Xryzz was a small shallow river in the heart of Pitsman Country. ‘They have their orders and will be ready to join you in battle when the time comes.’
‘How many?’ Jaks asked.
‘150 of the best. 50 Calvary and 100 members of my elite crew.’
‘Which is equal to 1000 Pitsmen,’ Bammam added with a drunken slur and a chuckle.
Borday bristled and turned red but held his tongue.
Ceriuz watched the scene. It had been an age since the Pitsmen employed the services of the Untas; they were ferocious warriors, and he wasn’t quite sure Bammam was too far off - perhaps worth 2000 Pitsmen he mused.
Good thing that they rarely ventured off their beloved Island and had little to no ambitions; otherwise Pitsmen, Osterlays, Taquans, Jegarviaks, and all other Lowlanders would be in serious jeopardy.
‘That would be more than enough to give us a fighting chance. You have your orders?’
‘I have instructions…I take orders from no one,’ Kroos said softly, his black eyes fixed and unblinking on the King of the Pitsmen who he considered his equal.
‘The impertinence of this Jackal!’ Boday could take it no more, and his hands went to his sword hilt.
‘Stay your hand damn you!’ Jak glared at him until he removed his hand from his sword. Ceriuz watched on a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Jaks had undoubtedly just saved Boday from a swift death; he was no match for the Untas.
Jaks turned to the Untas unfazed by the insults. He was a rare King Ceriuz thought, unaffected by the pomp of his station, only focused on the task at hand. With him at the helm, we are in steady hands.
‘Your bounty.’ He clapped his hands sharply twice, and after a few minutes, four stout soldiers emerged bearing a massive chest. The Untas sat up and stared as the chest was prized open revealing a fortune in gold coins, pearls, jewels, silver, and other precious gems.
There was silence in the room as Kroos got up and sauntered to the chest. He grabbed a fistful of precious gems and let it run through his stubby fingers. He grunted in satisfaction and returned to Bammam’s side.
‘We are well pleased. But there’s one more thing,’ he said, looking at Jaks, his small black eyes flat and dull.
For the first time, Jaks looked unsure. He glanced at Daarrk who lifted his shoulders.
‘What is it? That was our bargain.’
‘Things change,’ Kroos said, examining his dirty fingernails. Bamamm, who was as much in the dark as the others in the tent perked up.
‘I want a woman…a Pitsman to take back with me.’
There was a silence in the room as the atmosphere, suddenly became charged.
‘You what?’ Jaks said, staring at the leader of the Untas who glared back impassively. I want one of your women, to become my wife.’
‘By the blood of the seven gods!’ Borday swore rising to his feet. There was a gasp from Murchee, and even Bamamm looked about furtively his mouth ajar.
‘We do not sell our women Islander,’ Daarrk said. ‘I helped negotiate the deal, and this was not part of it.’
‘Like I said,’ Kroos persisted, the ghost of a smile playing on his small, cruel, thin lips. ‘Things have changed. I have decided to take a wife from your people. Would you prefer I raid a village on my way back and abduct a few women, this
way at least I do it peacefully.’
‘Let me cut down the swine,’ Boday snarled and in a swift movement revealed his sword, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire. Bamamm shifted until he was by Kroos side and crouched like a feral animal.
Kroos raised his hand, calming Bamamm. ‘No need for hostilities. We are unharmed.’ He addressed Jaks who had turned white. ‘It is simply a humble request. If refused, we will leave, and the agreement is forfeit. I will take my men, and we will return to our Islands.’
‘Let me cut this lying offal into a thousand pieces and feed his carcass to the dogs of the camp…I beseech thee, my Lord.’
‘Silence!’ Jaks snapped at Boday. ‘One more word from you and I will have you flayed like a common infantryman.’
Boday’s mouth opened and closed, and his face turned crimson, but he said nothing. Murchee stiffened. For a General to be addressed like a street urchin was something he could not stomach, his military training however kept him quiet as he looked on.
Jaks stared at the short, slim, wiry Unta, who was unmoved and unafraid at the turmoil his requests had caused. Doesn’t he know that I can have his head on a stick in a minute if I wanted? Jaks broke out in a smile. He knew quite alright, but he is a gambling man; staking his hand on the fact that I will be wise enough not to jeopardize the fate of my people for one woman.
‘Is this your last request Islander?’
Kroos tilted his head, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he growled finally.
The Legend of Brigaard Page 6
