War Pigs

by Jay Requard

  Walking to the same place he had given himself to the Azure Queen long ago, Lut looked above and saw a familiar face look back through the broad leaves of green and blue. Grus balanced himself on a stout branch, clutching Ravager in one hand while holding to the tree's trunk to keep steady. Lut held his hands out before him and caught his ax when his father dropped it from above. Hiding his weapon behind his muscular thigh, he trudged into the shadows of the groves.

  In the dusty shade he spotted the five shamans. Each representing the main deities of Mystland's lakes, valleys, and misted peaks, they were the chosen of the land’s great powers: The Azure Queen, The Burnt Maiden, Strotos, The Branched, and The Five Brothers.

  Yet to Lut they were puppets for slave masters, over-privileged and drug-addled. Only Shur, the warrior's light, and Ata, his mate in the night sea of stars, had proved consistent, reliable—two things Lut valued more than anything.

  "What interesting fate," said one of the shamans, a withered husk with two broken tusks in his mouth. Yellow paint smeared his arms while a white paste covered his face, a decoration of allegiance to the Five Brothers, a cadre of elemental gods who ruled the hills on the eastern border Mystland held with Shen, a powerful empire of jade-crowned politicians. His knees trembled as he held his body up by his short club. "The outcast won again. So what failure will you wish for now?"

  The four other mystics chuckled as Lut glowered. He addressed the first speaker. "I wish for the Azure Queen."

  The old shaman guffawed, a hacking sound. "He wins glory a second time to throw it away," he said to his fellows. "What would you wish again of the blue goddess, Lut, who seeks your head for your denial of the gods’ ways? What could she provide you?"

  "I would send her a challenge," Lut said. "I demand she meet me in combat at the next war festival one year from now. She can try for my head, but she must claim it for herself, if she has the power."

  The rude laughs of the mystics silenced. One of the others stepped forward, his iron blade free in his hand. From his shoulder hung a large blanket made of deer hide, noticeable for the hem threaded with the briar thorns of The Branched. "You'd dare attack our gods of hill and rain?" he asked through mauve-dyed tusks.

  Lut smiled as he revealed Ravager. "More than that."

  Another figure entered the glen, swinging his two-handed sword in great arches. Grus waved Bloodtide through the bodies of the representatives for the Azure Queen and The Branched. Blood splattered and shot as Lut waded among their victims, cleaving one man to the skull before he paired off with the last two. A younger mystic, wrapped in shreds of cloth and fur in the manner of Strotos’ nomads, danced his dagger before him. He stamped the ground to goad Lut into an attack, a bruising clash that left the shaman’s skull shattered. Father and son closed on the lone survivor, the Five Brothers’ representative who first addressed Lut.

  Kicking the stick out from under him, Lut mounted the idiot, who cowered in a fetal position as Grus cackled with joy at the slaughter they had made. He set his ax under the shaman's chin, leaving flecks of white paint on the edge.

  "Go tell her I want to fight. Tell all of your rulers, but make sure to tell her first. Tell her I know I know she’s coming and I’m ready," Lut said. "And if I see you at the war festival ever again, as sure as Shur rises, I'll take your head."

  The Azure Queen refused Lut’s challenge.

  Lut beamed at the news the evening when he and his father descended from the hills for the deeper woods, the stronghold of the Tent Council, a body the Inners enfranchised to keep the line on how those below them should act. Past a hidden palisade gate, they strode through a cultivated series of interconnected villages, each one a pocket filled with armed Tents. These sneering enforces had corralled their personal slaves and indentured Without-Tents behind them, a naked reminder to Lut and Grus of how many of them there were to fight that eve.

  The leaves shifted reds and yellows, casting the sunlight gold. Neither cowed or awed, Lut and his father found the final cell, a row of tents decorated in finery and stitched of choice leathers.

  "So this is what they create?" Grus whispered to his son, disappointed.

  "Did you ever really stop and look?" Lut replied, standing before them with Ravager cradled in one arm. He thumbed the edge as the red-brown tents flapped open. Dozens of well-heeled males and females stepped out bearing weapons that had seen little use. They converged upon Lut and Grus, and one at the front of their mass broke ahead.

  Strapped in a breast plate of scuffed iron, he displayed his legs, a wish for the visitors to ogle his moldy buckskin pants. "Are you Lut, the one who carries Ravager?" he asked, shrill.

  Lut continued to thumb the curve of his ax-blade. "I am as summoned."

  "Fair warrior," said the Tent, resting his flabby bulk on his sword. The blade warped to support him. "We have summoned to speak to your honor, though tenuous as it is afforded, and wish to address your prize."

  Lut hid a scowl as he watched good iron suffer, a holy soul unloved. "Oh?"

  "Aye," said the pompous Tent. "We have heard of your mad notion to fight your better, and though we would dissuade you of it, we cannot do so honorably without paying an equal prize."

  "As your ‘honor’ requires," Lut said dryly. "What would you offer?"

  He spoke in a rehearsed fashion. "The Azure Queen and her fellows, damning The Burnt Maiden, wish to resume their presence at the war festival. Will you allow it?"

  Lut glanced to his father. Grus gave a considered nod. The old warrior, a grand bearer for Bloodtide’s name, leaned with the great sword on his shoulder and at the ready.

  Lut looked to the Tent representative. "I will if the prize is right."

  "Oh, it shall be, Ravager," the Tent said with a forced gaiety. "We would welcome you to join us, a holder of your own tent and chief of a swath. You will be a Tent like us—if you give up your mad scheme."

  Lut roared in laughter. "I accept."

  The cheer for conformity broke from the gathered Tents as they thrust unstained weapons up in celebration. Lut watched, his weapon held close, as servants appeared with heaping platters of roasted meats, roots, and fungus, which those rich simpletons gorged upon. Wondrous iron was cast down in shameful disregard. Snorting choruses of gluttony, they paid him no attention as he and his father left the party.

  "That went almost too well," Grus said when they found the open sky.

  "Now we get to keep our peace until we no longer want to," Lut said as they trod the high grass, brittle brushes that caressed his still-bruised thighs. At the end of the next meadow they met a third figure carrying a short sword and hide shield. Dras, half of his face swollen, nodded in respect as they neared.

  "Good meeting?" he asked aloud, his voice low and sharp.

  "Grand meeting. Put out the call," ordered Lut. “Tell those Without-Tents that want equal share for equal glory to gather in the caverns in the south. They will be given iron to name, food to eat, honor to gain. And they will sleep beneath roofs, not hides."

  "Why there?" asked Dras, his shaggy brown mane fluttering in the wind. "Why in caves?"

  "Caves are where our people came from, where they first learned to rise for Shur's light," Grus responded.

  Lut searched the skies above, finding the same gold he once beheld in her eyes "Where better to begin again?"

  2

  For the Stabwounds in Our Backs

  Lut gazed at the sun, wiggling his toes in the mud of the pit. It had been a colder winter, and the frost had left the late spring cooler than expected. His muscles, honed by the raids of the last two seasons, felt the worst of it in his neck and shoulders. The crowd circling him chanted.

  "Rav-a-ger! Rav-a-ger!"

  The thrum of their voices, choral and blended, drew his hazed vision to the faces surrounding him. The Roofed chanted his name, booming above the small smatter of rallies that that Inners and Tents in the audience managed to muster. Those of the latter who had made it to the mud pit were close
r desired. Their soft silks were stained by the grass and splattered earth.

  "Rav-a-ger! Rav-a-ger!"

  Pride swelled in Lut’s chest. What had started as a few of the weaker males and females were now forged, battle-tested warriors, given new lives, new purpose by his crusade to throw down the ones who had put them there. Since the end of spring, they had charged into endless campaigns, shying from the expected custom of raiding unclaimed territory and outright robbing many of the Inners and Tents of their spoils. A respected but old tradition, those with more had developed a keen distaste for the Roofed, as they were called for the fort Lut had built from a few small caves in hills few ever cared for. At some point, they had tried to respond in kind, only to meet iron tempered by Shur’s war-heat and quenched in the cold of winter nights on the move, leaning the skills Lut had acquired from the Azure Queen’s Black Hoods.

  No distractions, no mind.

  Lut shook himself back to the present, back to the opponent across from him.

  On the other side of the pit stood a tall female, about his height, who bared to the crowd her nude and scarred body. Lean, rangy muscle hid beneath the solid trunk of her torso, which paired with two sinewy arms and two trim legs. Even Lut had heard of the great Brac, a decorated raider who bore the short sword, Split-Tongue, which had hewed the heads of drakes in the eastern lands of Shen. Scars covered her face, the telltale sign of someone who was not afraid to get close.

  "Keep her moving," Grus called from behind Lut, who used Bloodtide as a fencepost for him to lean on. Dras knelt next to him, staring intently at Brac. His black eyes darting, he bobbed his head in thought. He looked to Lut.

  "Old bones in that one," called Dras. "Just keep her moving."

  Another year, another two winning fights behind him, Lut grinned upon the stage of his third Champion's Round. He stood upright, strong, resilient, yet he knew he was older. The days seemed shorter from his vantage.

  But not too short.

  Lut measured his foe as the Tent referee from Lut's victory last year took the center of the pit. His deerskin cloak had rotted through the seasons, reduced to a shift he wrapped around his stout body like a sash. Bald and ugly, he looked at both of them as he motioned them to meet.

  "The last fight, when the last seed finds the soil while the others fall to the wind. The victorious can request a boon with The Wicked. No bites. No cheeks. No eyes. No pauses," said the referee. He leapt back, clapping his hands together. "Fight!"

  One last nod shared between him and his opponent, Lut put his hands up and circled right. Brac mimicked his posture. They pawed jabs at each other, throwing feints to gauge reactions. Lut pressed the pace and drove forward with a tight right-left-right combination.

  Avoiding the punches, Brac leaned in, her hands out to grab Lut by his hair. Fingers snarled in the reddish-brown tangles of his mane. She brought a knee hard to Lut's gut. The wind driven out of him, Lut tried to fall on top of Brac when the latter dove for his legs, and in a blink she slammed him against the earth. Lut kicked at the veteran as she tried to gain a better position.

  "Get off your back," Grus shouted from beside Dras. "Scramble! Scramble!"

  Kicking Brac away for a moment, Lut rolled backward to his feet, setting forward in time to absorb another tackle. He took lefts to the face as he rose. Blood trickled into his eyes. He swung wildly in hope of catching Brac, who took a step back and popped Lut’s head back with a straight right to the mouth. Lut ducked the follow-up kick and traded jabs with her. He backed away, wiping the blood from his eyes to clear his stinging vision. Brac refused the distance, keeping at Lut with hooks to the body and a kick to his inner thigh.

  Unbalanced, Lut halted her with a left straight to her snout. Shuddered but undaunted, Brac hugged Lut and tripped them to the ground. He twisted hard to the side, putting his opponent onto her back in the mud.

  Slipping and sliding to gain position, Lut reared back to strike when Brac's legs snaked around his right arm and head.

  Caught in the triangle created by Brac's sinewy limbs, he fought to free his head as she tightened the noose her legs made. Choked of air, Lut pushed up to his feet, lifting the body wrapped around him as well. He recalled this very instance in his first fight with Dras, when his friend had lifted him from a deep puddle of water to slam them down in the murky nothingness. One voice broke through the moment.

  "Drive her on her head," cried Dras. "Bounce her!"

  Allowing his arms to hang loose, Lut held onto Brac's hand, lifted her up, and drove her headfirst into the earth. The first jolt turned her limbs to jelly, while the second shook her from Lut's upper body. He dropped punches at her face until the referee pulled him off.

  Once the fighters were collected, the Tent referee approached Lut with a deep bow.

  "Three-times the champion," he said, hiding concern behind a congenial smile. "What favor do you ask, Lut?"

  Red trickled off Lut's swollen brow, blinding him in his left eye. Dras worked at the laceration with small bits of cloth, honey, and herbs to stymie the wound's flow. Grus waited behind him, Bloodtide set on his shoulder. He surveyed the cheering crowds. Many of the Roofed had moved into position, hiding their iron daggers behind their backs. The Inners and Tents paid little attention.

  Lut revealed a savage smile to the Tent referee. "Take me to The Wretched."

  Along the paths into the elder woods Lut and his Roofed marched, their numbers gathering as he went deeper into the dens. Emerald shadows swallowed the sun behind a dense canopy thickened by the unseasonably long spring rains. Much to their surprise, they found a line of opposing warriors waiting for them in the dark. Clad in bits of armor set over their silken shirts, outrageous cloaks, and stolen pants, an array of Tents approached the Roofed.

  "Halt, Lut," said the warrior at their front. His green face painted in smears of purple, he posed openly to reveal the dirtied white shirt he wore, his neck dripping with strands of pearls and silver. "Where do you go with this force?"

  "I have won my third championship. I may request whatever boon I wish." Lut squared himself with the Tent, his ax low in his hands. "I am to meet The Wretched."

  "Nay, Lut."

  Lut cocked an eyebrow. Crusts of blood crumpled in light brushstrokes of pain. "Nay?"

  "You formed an agreement," said the Tent. Leaning on his sword, the iron blade warped under his fleshy weight, much to the ire of the Roofed. "We gave you a tent you never filled for a promise you march to break. Nay, Lut. We will leave you and your ilk alone if your wish to the wise is sound."

  "And what business of yours is my wish to the 'wise'?" Lut asked, angered by the rich pig's assumption. "You should part from my path. Return to your places at the festival."

  "You would tell us our place, Without-Tent?" snapped the Tent male, who raised his bent sword at Lut's naked chest. "You would dare?"

  Lut stepped forward. The point of the Tent's sword dug into his tight chest, drawing blood. He snarled through the pain, his eyes locked with the Tent's. The bastard quivered in terror and stepped back. As the point of the male's sword retracted from his flesh, Lut darted his hand forward, grabbing a handful of shirt and beads. He jerked him close, snout to cheek.

  "I built my own Roof." Lut shoved the Tent back, raised Ravager, and caved his skull in two.

  The Roofed charged with glee into the lines of their old enemies, the very caste of people who had kept them suffering under the open sky. These were the lord and ladies, whores and cuckolds, who had exploited their middle position for the glitter of stolen silver and rotted flesh, not Shur or Ata or the holiness of iron. Blood misted the darkened forest as bodies of Roofed and Tent alike were dashed to the ground, cut open in glorious combat.

  Minutes later the song of Shur quieted. Still on his feet, Lut charged past scenes where his Roofed slaughtered and tortured Tents who had survived the massacre. In the grove where the mystics stood he caught sight of another mass of warriors standing behind the five. The Black Hoods held the
ir line in silence, a sure sign that the Azure Queen had sent aid. Polished iron flashed in the hands of many, fine weapons wielded by the finest warriors in all of Mystland.

  Lut laughed at the death set before him. "Look at you," he shouted. "Holy shards for holy work, eh?”

  "Spare us of your humor, Ravager," called one of The Wretched. Lut recognized this one, a tall servant clad in armor and wielding a spear. The dead otters that hung around his neck, rotted and maggoty, framed a broad face. Seated on a small stool made of hide and wood, he stamped his feet in anticipation. "Speak your boon."

  Lut pointed his ax at this male. "You're Nur, servant to The Branched."

  "And a former champion, lest you forget," said the warrior-shaman, a skilled war chief with a sizable force and enough secrecy for Lut to worry about them. He scanned the other four sent to speak for the gods. A mix of fear, curiosity, hate, and observation held their inquisitive stares, all different, but all possessing one common quality.

  They knew Lut would come.

  Lut gazed into the branches of the leafy oak trees they stood under. Shur pierced the dense leaves with his arrows of light, revealing the nooks and crannies of the hardwood canopy. He licked the back of his tusks when he spotted the spies, his bravado sapped by a clear understanding.

  The Inners had come to study him.

  He loosened his grip on Ravager to assume a more relaxed pose. "My boon is one that has never been answered: I challenge the Azure Queen to honored combat at the next war festival, as I challenge all the gods. Make sure she knows that I have heard her silence."

  The stillness of the wood carried his words. One by one, a Wretched would stand, bow to his fellows, and disappear into the forests. The Branched, Strotos, The Five Brothers—these factions, which had waned some under the raids by the Roofed, and then the Azure Queen, whose Wretched paid no words to Lut as she left.

  At last, only Lut and the mystic for The Burnt Maiden remained. Capped in the head of a red fox, two tails hung from the hooks in her ears. Her face, breasts, and groin were smeared in handfuls of red clay. She stood from her deep crouch and turned to her warriors. Whispering orders, the organized columns of muddy fighters marched off in lock-step. She faced Lut.