by Rex Hazelton
“I for one,” Petyr spoke through tight lips that finally relaxed as the smoke that had been held in his lungs was finally exhaled before he completed what he wanted to say, “am glad we don’t want a real fight. Have you seen how fast them elves are? And what about them shiny arrows they shot? I wouldn’t want to be stuck by one of them. Those that do come away with more than a flesh wound.”
“With how skinny you are, I wouldn’t be worrying about being stuck by an arrow.” Where Petyr was a willowy lad that made a poor target for the elven archers, Cloy was as wide as a barn door.
Both men wore clothes they brought with them from home: woolen pants and shirts, sturdy leather boots and broad-brimmed hats to protect their heads from the sun. The heavy cloaks they carried were used more to protect them from sword and knife blades than from the cold and rain.
As time passed, cloaks were exchanged for pieces of armor the villagers scavenged off the dead they came across during one of their quick-strike forays. Some of the men from Bridgewater now wore chainmail shirts over their woolen clothing. Greaves, vambraces, breast-plates and helmets were starting to show up on the villagers as well, though few pieces matched and none of the men were close to being fully armored.
Petyr laughed at Cloy’s remark before making one of his own. “Jealous, are we? With your size, I’m surprised the elves haven’t turned you into a pin cushion already.”
“Boys,” Jayk spoke with a paternal voice he had honed while dealing with his own children, “enough of that.”
“Alright Dad,” Petyr replied as he threw Cloy his smoking pouch as a peace offering. “Your boys’ll behave.
Jayk’s wry smile didn’t properly reflect the love he had for his men. After all, other than his brother, Bowdyn, this was his family, not by blood, but by shared histories. Having grown up in the same village where they worked together and fought off threats to their community together, these were as much his kin as Bowdyn was
Along with Petyr and Cloy, there was Barty, Scoup, Tagle, Rufyk, and Red. All of them had a hand in helping Jayk save Peyt from the wraiths the night they spectres carried the tavern owner off to be turned into a white-skin. Knit together by the disturbing experience, a bond had developed between them that was stronger than most they had with other villagers, a bond that deepened when Red’s eldest son, Kyl, had the Spell of the White Hand cast over him. Instead of discouraging the men, the tragic episode only cemented their commitment to one another and to the pledge they made to protect the village they lived in.
One hundred men that had been conscripted out of Bridgewater were gathered around the smattering of small smoking fires that were being used to keep their cherished pipes lit. When the fighting began outside Port Crown there was one-hundred and ten. Though the Bridgewater mlitia had been assigned the task of protecting the Storch Regulars’ southern flank, relegating them to be a rear guard of sorts, this didn’t spare them from suffering loses. And it was these loses that the men were discussing.
“Elves?” Red got his name from the color of his skin that made him look like he was continually blushing, though his temperament wasn’t predisposed to such at all. His willingness to speak his mind, no matter who was in ear shot, proved this. “What about the Otrodorians? The way they fight, no wonder they’re called Wild Men. We had five to one odds against them earlier today. Still, they drove us back and killed Styn, Langoryk, and Fran in the process.”
Rubbing his nose to hide his quivering lips, Red added, “You know I’m no pushover. Still, the way I was forced to fight for my own life, I couldn’t do anything to help those boys.”
“With all the fights we got into when we were young, I know that you’re one tough bastard.” Cloy looked away from Red to give him a moment to gather his composure. “Ain’t that right Barty?”
“Seeing his Da is your uncle, I wouldn’t be calling him a bastard.” The conversation was bothering him in a way that made Barty squint his eyes before he continued. “Red’s no coward that’s for sure. None of us are. But were stuck in a war we don’t have a heart to fight in. There’s no love for the Sorcerer in Bridgwater. What does it matter to any of us if Nyeg Warl’s emperor seizes power? Can our lives be any worse than they are?”
With Red’s oldest son having been turned into a white-skin, Jayk was surprised with how well the man had been able to keep his bitterness in check. The way the Sorcerer had tightened his grip on Bridgewater by using the Spell of the White Hand to not only take control the village but to change the very nature of the place too, Jayk was wrestling with bitterness of his own. Though his wife and children had been spared from the plague of dark magic that had hurt so many of their neighbors, his disgust for what was happening was as great as anyone else’s.
“We all know were not fighting because we’re loyal to Ab’Don. We’re fighting because we fear him and the things he can do to our families.” Jayk replied. “And from what I here, Nyeg Warl doesn’t have an emperor.”
“What?” Tagle coughed up his smoke so violently the helmet that was too big for his head fell over his face until its nose guard struck his chin. “How do they keep from falling apart? If it weren’t for the Socerer, there’d be no way Ar Warls kings would agree to anything. Burn it to ashes, they all hate each other’s guts.”
“I rightly don’t know,” Jayk admitted. “But it makes me think there’s a way of living none of us has seen. Maybe they trust each other? Maybe they don’t? But I wouldn’t mind finding out. As far as I can see, none of them are whiteskins. That’s got to count for something.”
Gazing across the large Ar Warl encampment that looked like a dark blotch on Syble Plains’ night-shrouded grassland and at the campfires flickering on the distant low-lying hills where the Nyeg Warlers were settled in- no doubt, smoking their own pipes and watching them too- Jayk took a few moments to rehearse his recollections of the fighting. Positioned on the fringes of the Ar Warl host as they were, he wasn’t privy to events taking place in the battle’s hottest spots, places where the whiteskins and Hag flexed their muscles before the oncoming Nyeg Warler hordes. Still, his memories didn’t lack violent drama.
After leading a pre-dawn attack on the Nyeg Warlers nearest them, King Peranth of Storch called off the assault not long after it began. Afterward, he had his warriors engage the enemy in a way that kept their retreat from turning into a route. Holding their ground just long enough to make the Nyeg Warlers think they had decided to stand and fight, Storch’s footmen suddenly withdrew as the cavalry rode up to hold the enemy back long enough for them to gain separation from those pursuing them.
The subsequent days followed a similar script, though Ar Warl’s attack might take place in the evening instead of the morning. The afternoons seldom saw any concerted fighting, and the fighting at night seldom had humans involved in it. This was when the wraiths took over harassing the enemy with fangs and claws that could rend flesh.
At these times, it sounded like moaning winds were blowing across the plains while the elves put on a light show with their sparkling thred-arrows they used to stem the tide of dead that came at them in waves, arrows that could remove the wraiths from the battlefield after they tore them into shreds that immediately retreated into the distance like a massive giant was inhaling them into its lungs. Rumor was, the giant was Cara Lorn.
While the fighting ensued, the rest of the Ar Warl’s southern forces continued to retreat toward Malam, the city of Ab’Don’s birth and the place where everyone was beginning to suspect the Battle of Ar Warl would be fought in earnest.
Moving away from the enemy as they did, the Ar Warler’s nocturnal retreat was carried out at a measured pace, one that kept them close enough to strike at those who followed and gave the whiteskins time to catch up with while escorting the newly initiated into their ranks away from the ritual sites where the Spell of the White Hand had been cast over them.
A memory of the time he and his men were ordered to protect an ensuing ritual from being disturbed by a compa
ny of Nyeg Warlers that had been sent out to disrupt the sorcerous conjuring required to cast the spell came to Jayk’s mind.
Forebidden from getting too close to the place where dark magic was being used to take control of the bodies of warriors who had been ordered to march to the site of the impending travesty, an order the warriors wouldn’t have obeyed if they knew what was about to happen to them, all Jayk could see were the poles that had been set up in a circle on the plain, each reflecting a bonfire’s light. Having had first hand experience with the ritual used to cast the Spell of the White Hand, back when he helped deliver Peyt from being turned into a dreaded white-skin, Jayk was able to make an accurate guess at what he was seeing.
A man per pole, he thought. There’ll be twenty more whiteskins tomorrow if what I think is happening over there is taking place.
Who’s the real enemy? Jayk snorted air out of his nostrils at this thought. The Nyeg Warlers want to take our lives; the whiteskins want to take our souls.
Before Jayk had time to consider the conundrum that sat before him, the white-skin who had command over Bridgewater’s militia ordered him to keep his eyes looking forward.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Kroyn said as his clouded-over eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You may have saved Peyt, but there’s no way your going to save those men over there.”
Then Jayk’s father-in-law, for that’s who the white-skinned commander had been before the Spell of the White Hand was cast over him, laughed and said, “By the way, where’s Peyt at.”
For a moment Jayk’s heart jumped into his throat. Then he saw his big friend’s bald head as he moved to take his place in the line that was quickly forming behind the Storch Regulars. Watching the white-skin commander laugh even louder when he saw fear flashing across his face, Jayk sneered at the man who was no longer his wife’s father and went to stand beside Peyt in the middle of the line of Bridgewater warriors. A double line of Storch Regulars was arranged in front of them, facing in a southerly direction where the enemy had been spotted a short time before.
If not for the extraordinary night vision the cretchym’s owl progenitor had given it, the Nyeg Warlers that were sneaking up on the dark ritual would have gone unnoticed. Unfortunately for the cretchym who spotted the clandestine maneuver, shortly after he had sent its insect-like cretchym companion off to report all it had seen, a griffin swooped out of the darkening sky and killed the mutant with two quick swipes of its clawed forepaws followed by a single bite that snapped the winged-demon’s neck. This left the Nyeg Warlers free to move without further reports being given on their whereabouts, nor on the cavalry that was moving up behind them, coming from a direction directly south of the ritual site and not from the southwest where Nyeg Warl’s main force was situated.
The operation began when Ramskynd, a Brotanyss or One filled with Magic, sensed the concentration of dark magic that was being used to cast the Spell of the White Hand on its unsuspecting victims. When the Elf-King shared what he was sensing with the Candle Warriors assigned to Nyeg Warl’s southern force, they were able to focus their powers in a way that enabled them to detect the dark magic for themselves. Though there was more than one site where the foul sorcery was at work, the Nyeg Warler’s chose to attack the southern-most location in an attempt to ascertain what was going on.
The assault that had two phases to it, actually swung into motion two days earlier. The first phase was carried out by the Otrodorians who planned to sneak up on the Ar Warlers and take up a position near the place where the dark powers were at work. The second phase would be carried out by a segment of the elven cavalry that was small enough to keep an alarm from being raised by the enemy when they were initially deployed, but large enough to deal with the dark powers once they were turned against them.
Otrodorian hill folk were chosen to carry out the first phase because of the furs they loved to wear could be used for camouflage given the right circumstances. Splitting up into groups that travelled only at night, the descendents of the Wild Men were ready to drop to their hands and knees to mimic a herd or pack of animals whenever the Candle Warriors, who came along with them, sensed the cretchym were flying nearby. During the day they covered their furs with grass and dirt as they lay upon the ground and took their rest. That’s how they were able to get as far as they did without being spotted. It wasn’t until the groups joined up with each other, to form a company large enough to make the owl-like cretchym think it best to give them a second look that led to their discovery.
Once it was determined the Otrodorians were nearly in position, phase two went into motion and the elven cavalry was sent out to do its job. Until the elves arrived, the Otrodorians were on their own, a prospect that didn’t bother them since it gave them a chance to gain Battle Honor they wouldn’t have to share with the woodland folk. With this thought in mind, they charged the Storch Regulars before the elves had time to arrive. Shouting as wildly as they did, it looked like the ground had spewed out a host of madmen that ran heedlessly into the wall of well-armed warriors that faced them. But as it often happens when madmen are around, the unexpected takes place, and the lines of Storch Regulars breaking as quickly as it did was unexpected.
It was strange to see bearded Otrodorians who were draped in furs, bulling their way through the well-dressed Storch Regulars. It was like the civilized warl couldn’t withstand the feral warl’s intrusion. Wearing chainmail held in place by wide leather belts, over the purple and gold-colored tunics they had on, and boiled-leather helmets, vambraces and greaves, the Ar Warlers were using the halberds they carried as best the could in the close quarter fighting that was taking place. When more Regulars showed up with swords in hand, the Otrodorians were only slowed down, not stopped.
Since the Bridgewater Militia was being held in reserve for the time being, Jayk watched the battle in front of him with curiosity that was bred by equal parts of fascination over things novel and calculating intellect that was busy appraising an enemy he would soon have to fight. What he saw was troubling. It wasn’t that the fur-clad warriors couldn’t be killed that worried Jayk, it was the way the warriors comported themselves when wounded: they didn’t withdraw to safety, nor fight with any less ferocious zeal. Many that could have saved their lives by retreating, stood their ground and took as many Storch Regulars down with them as they could before they succumbed to their wounds.
The chainmail the Storch Regulars wore was inadequate to stop the Otrodorian blades that were being wielded with savage strength. The amount of force that could be put behind the less wieldly blades in close-quarters fighting made the short swords and long-knives the most effective weapons to pierce the chainmail with. The longswords were better at lopping off arms and cutting though the boiled-leather helmets that were worn for protection.
We have our whiteskins, Jayk thought. And Nyeg Warl has its Wild Men. Is there magic at work in both?
“Bridgewater,” Kroyn’s nauseating voice could be heard above the din of battle, “forward!”
Without hesitating, the armed militia stepped into the melee broiling before them and engaged the Otrodorians that pushed past the Storch Regulars. Jayk would soon find out if the fur-clad, bearded warriors possessed magic or not. To his relief, he found that they didn’t, though the ferocity the Otrodorians fought with stole most of the sense of relief away.
Jeryd was the first of Bridgwater’s men to fall, brought down by a longsword that shattered the villager’s blade before it cut deep into his chest and abdomen. Jayk would have been next if Kroyn hadn’t stepped between him and an Otrodorian who buried his longknife into the white-skin’s gut.
After ramming his own short sword into the offending Otrodorian’s chest, whose eyes were as big as saucers when the realized the white-skin wasn’t fazed in the least by the blade that was driven deep into his gut, Kroyn turned to Jayk and said, “It wouldn’t do to have you killed. We have plans for you.”
Afer a harsh sounding chuckle was offered up, Kroyn added,
“You and Peyt.”
Kroyn’s appearance heralded the advent of other whiteskins who joined the fight, twenty in all, twenty warriors that could take a spear through the heart and keep fighting like nothing had happened. And why? Because the organ was no longer needed, not when the Spell of the White Hand did the work the heart and blood it once pumped through the body did. Like the Otrodorian that Kroyn had slain to protect Jayk, more of the fur-clad warriors were startled to find their weapons were useless against the bloodless fiends they were fighting against. If it wasn’t for the elves’ appearance, twenty whiteskins would have been all that was needed to help the Storch Regulars drive the Otrodorians away.
The sound of horse hooves, beating against the Syble Plain, joined the chaotic noises coming from the deadly fray. The elven cavalry had arrived. At the same time, a detachment of Duikian horsemen rode in to confront the elves.
Twenty riders in all, twelve of the elves went to meet the Duikian horsemen while eight others leapt off their mounts looking like the wind was carrying them to confront the whiteskins who were wreaking havoc among the Otrodorians.
Feeling like he had fallen into a dream, Jayk was surprised to see the elves were too fast for the whiteskins. Their speed was so graceful, it didn’t appear they were bound to the laws of nature like those they fought. Despite the armor they wore, the elves’ steps were so light, Jayk would swear the grass covering the plains was hardly disturbed by their passing when the Otrodorians and Storch Regulars trampled everything under foot.
A large Otrodorian, who looked more like a bear than a human with all the furs he wore, came at Jayk wielding a wooden hammer with a head was as big as a bucket. As stout as he was, Jayk wasn’t over-matched by the Nyeg Warlers size. But as fast as the Otrodorian was, Jayk had his hands full keeping the hammer from crushing his head. Using the buckler he held in his left hand to ward off the heavy hammer, Jayk cut at the man with a sword he was adept at using. With all the furs that were draped over the large man’s body, Jayk found his blade gained little purchase in the flesh that lay beneath them when his blade found its mark. Still, his adroit swordsmanship kept the Otrodorian from foolishly trying to muscle his way past the man employing the deadly defensive tactics.
