by Jay Requard
Instead of a call for Shur’s war festival, The Branched called for a war.
Lut approached the battlefield, hidden in a gathering of Roofed fighters that had already fought long through the night, but they had demanded the honor of escorting him to the field. Spying over their heads as they fanned out into a proper shield wall, he spotted Nur at the front.
The champion of The Branched stood proud before his bristling cohorts. Dozens of iron spikes and shards protruded from his knee-length leather coat, completing an ensemble that included iron arm guards forged in the twisting design of brier-vines. Old blood, blackish green and sparse, rusted the points of the barbs. Nur locked eyes with Lut, bearing an intense focus beneath a golden crown shaped into a ring of hard, sharpened edges. As always, two rotted otters stitched together hung limp about his neck in a putrid scarf.
Dras took his place beside Lut in the mass of Roofed, his measured stare on the enemy. "Nooks and crannies, Lut. Nooks and crannies."
"Aye," Lut said, the weight of his father's helm heavy on his neck and shoulders. Even in the midst of a hot summer day, dawn's cold remained in his extremities. Bending his knees in hopes the joints would bear the weight of the bronze greaves encasing his shins and calves better, the blood rushing his limbs refused to warm his nerves. He hesitated before Dras smacked into a shield, breaking into The Branched line with a savagery he struggled to muster.
Mirthless, Lut went forward to make a point yet again.
"Nur-tik-tik-tik!" Roaring with blood thirst, Nur charged with his arms outstretched. Stepping to the side, Lut ducked low as his opponent swung gauntleted hands for his face and stumbled. He struggled to regain his balance, slipping in the mud. Chasing after him, Nur launched himself forward a second time, landing in the muck with a loud plop.
Lut swung his ax at his fellow champion's head. Avoiding the stroke, Nur darted in and grabbed the back of Lut's helm, pulling him close.
Clenched together, Lut grunted as he slammed his ax’s head against Nur’s war brown. His foe kicked at his legs. Blood dripped down Lut's shins.
Lut jammed the top of Ravager's bill into Nur's exposed throat. Separated, they backed away from each other, out of breath from their exchange. A confident smile split The Branched champion's ugly mouth as he put his spiked fists up, ready to engage again. His knees bloody and aching, Lut traversed a wide circle as Nur stalked, swinging every time he came close enough to reach.
Nur charged with two heavy swings. Lut ducked the first, but unbalanced by the disturbed earth of the battlefield, the iron thorns of Nur's gauntlets sliced open his chin. Blood leaked from the ghastly wound. Lut screamed in dismay as Nur tackled him into the mud. Mounted, he offered little defense as his helm was ripped from his head. Trying to use Ravager as a club, he threw a clumsy swing, which was batted away with a wicked laugh. Nur’s barbed fist collided with the side of his head, and the world went black as the talons ripped at the flesh near his temples. Blinded by the blood, Lut could do nothing as he felt the bastard atop him rear back for another strike.
Waiting for death to fall, Lut closed his eyes. No distractions, no mind.
Keep your guard high.
Lut raised his ax as he opened his eyes, setting it across his body like a bar. Nur came down with his strike, putting his full weight behind it. Slipping the punch, Lut brought his legs back and placed both feet on Nur's hips. He turned to the left, kicking out with his right foot at the same time as he dislodged Nur. Tasting the pulped skin of his pierced cheek, Lut seethed at Nur, who huffed from his exertion.
Nur threw a hard overhand right, which Lut ducked before he countered by hooking Ravager's iron head behind his enemy's closest leg. Yanking hard, he pulled until Nur twisted in agony, forcing him to one knee.
Nur swung out with a backhanded swipe, ripping skin from Lut's leg. Lut chopped at his shoulder, denting one of the iron pauldrons on Nur's coat. He leveled another blow on the other side of Nur's head, crippling his left arm. Staring at Lut from beneath his war crown in confusion, the hate in Nur's eyes gave way to fear.
Raising Ravager high, Lut cleaved his head in two. In that moment, the victor had changed the world.
He had taught those without tents to build themselves roofs. With a dominant series of invasions, he conquered the Tents. Now, with a fall of his axe, Lut crippled the speakers for the gods.
He imagined his father seated next to Shur as the god of war shed his sunlight.
The Wretched heaped their praise on Lut’s victory when he raised the shattered crown of Nur in his hand to proclaim his domination.
"Tell your masters, your false gods, that I'm still waiting to fight the Azure Queen," Lut informed the terrified Inners smart enough to surrender. "Tell them they have one more year. I'll not wait after that."
5
Chapter 5: Shur’s Blessing
Vultures circled in the sky, waiting for the moment to descend once arms ceased to clash and blood ceased to spill. Clouds of dust obscured the way ahead as Lut charged with his line of raiders, descending the hill at a rapid pace towards the wagons. Set before three carriages, the Black Hoods of the Azure Queen's vanguard formed their line. Iron gleamed in the sunlight, dull and gray.
"Grus-tik-tik-tik," echoed as the Roofed slammed into her hooded minions. The melee carried on as skulls split, armor broke, and the cries of the dying glory reared a lusty head. Lut's own disappointment dampened the thrill of combat, as he stayed behind to make sure that any stragglers from the Azure Queen's retinue that broke through were quickly brought down, a tactic fate had forced after his injuries were slow to heal. He let Dras lead the Roofed first, offering them the support of a reliable rearguard.
The dust settled, the chaos subsided, and left among the fallen stood the wagons, their canvas curtains stained red with hot life. Approaching his raiders as they surrounded the three wagons, Lut wielded Ravager as a crutch as he went in search of Dras, who directed disposal of enemy bodies, a common custom the Roofed used in hostile territories.
"You make it down the hill all right?" Dras asked when he spotted Lut limping toward him.
"I did fine," he replied, grousing. "Any survivors?"
"Brac and Shel are still looking." Dras glanced at their warriors hard at work, scavenging the loot they had taken from the dead. He nodded toward the wagons. "Want to look?"
Lut signaled his agreement with a wave.
The canvases over the wagon's carriages were cut away at once. The heat of the late summer elicited a tired groan from the shackled prisoners huddled inside the compartments, some of whom whined when exposed to the battering sunlight. Dozens of human men, women, and children cowered when they saw who had liberated them, though many were too tired or hungry to muster much more.
"We found her slave caravan," said Lut, breathless. Separated from this sight for five years now, a rush of old emotions returned. In the years before, he would have been the one who captured these pitiful humans. He would have carted them to his lover so she could feast on their flesh in orgies of blood.
He would have worn the Black Hood of a slaver.
The sight of the emaciated children, left without food for days, sickened him. He could almost taste their stringy meat as he stepped from the wagon he stood beside, unable to bear another moment of it.
Dras noticed his reaction. Resting Bloodtide's stained brand on his well-formed shoulder, he carried the blade he had inherited with great honor, so much so that even the death of its previous wielder did not dampen its growing glory, but enhanced it. Grim in expression, he lowered the blade to hold it in both hands.
"Do you want me to take care of them?" he asked. "I'll show them quick mercy."
A moment passed as Lut stared at the two-hander his friend wielded. Wide-eyed, he looked to the Azure Queen's prisoners and back, unable to form an immediate answer. How could he take them as slaves when he was dedicated to his people's freedom? His hesitance drew the attention of the Roofed.
"We'll leave them to the forests, to S
hur and Ata," he called aloud, grasping for the first idea that came to him. "If they are strong they will find their way home. If not then let the earth have them."
Satisfied when none spoke against the order, Lut strode to the back of the first wagon and brought his ax down on the iron lock, snapping it with a single blow. Two more locks were broken. Lut and Dras waved the Roofed back to the woods.
Halfway into the shadows, Dras stopped Lut and pointed behind them. Separated from the human herd, a young girl marched in their direction, no older than seventeen and frail from what she had suffered as a prisoner. With her black hair, almond eyes, and yellowish skin, they both recognized her to be from Shen, the shining green empire to the east. A small bag made of leather hung around her thin body.
"What is she doing?" Dras asked.
"Go on ahead," said Lut, knowing how his friend would remedy the situation. "I'll deal with her."
Lut limped toward the girl as Dras vanished into Mystland's shrouded forests. He raised his ax when they met. She stood there, a determined look on her face as she held her hands out, palms up, and slowly inched her way forward.
"Go," he shouted, shoving her in the dirt.
She rose from the earth, making not a sound as she repeated her peaceful gesture, coming closer this time. Lut held Ravager's wide blade out at her, a more violent promise, but in she walked, past the iron head. He stepped back before she laid a hand on him and held her back with Ravager's length.
"Stop!" he commanded.
The girl stared at him, her eyes filled with something he had never seen from a human—they usually screamed, bled, and died, and the cowardly soul of their kind matched. He found sincerity instead, an iron he could not deter unless he slew her that instant. The sheer will she possessed froze Lut.
She gestured, blabbering words in her dog-language, motioning toward the ground.
He stared at the spot she pointed at for a moment, hesitant. The girl held his hand, looked him in the eyes, and said one word possessed with pleading. Using his weapon as a support, Lut lowered himself to the mossy ground, his knees burning as tendons cracked under his weight. He landed with a hard plop, growling his discomfort as he did so.
The girl opened her leather satchel and produced a series of iron needles, thinner than the awls Lut used to repair his armor, and even smaller than the hooked kind used for shutting wounds. With one hand on his chest, she pressed softly into Lut until he lay flat on his back. Touching his right knee, she felt around the joint and stuck one of the needles into the flesh by the kneecap.
Dras appeared above them, his sword raised high. "Poisoner! Witch!"
The girl cowered. Lut thrust his ax up, the point of the bill pressed into his friend's stomach.
"No," he shouted. "Look, Dras. Look!" He bent his knee easily.
Dras gaped at him and girl. "I thought..."
"Let her work," Lut ordered. He glanced to the girl and nodded.
Terrified, she kept an eye on Dras as she retrieved more needles from her pouch. Minutes later, she had covered both of Lut's knees in a field of small iron pins, and standing to her feet, offered him both hands. He marveled as he sat there, free of the sear that had inhabited the most crucial joints in his legs for more than a year. Like a fawn trying to stand for the first time, he took her hands and let her pull him up.
"By Shur's light," Dras cried when Lut rose, tall and stable.
Lut squatted down and popped back up, laughing louder each time. To be without the pain he had earned was a miracle, even if it did not last. When he ceased his squats he looked to the young girl from Shen, fighting the tears that dared to form at the edges of his eyes.
"She's still not leaving," Dras noticed, his previous hostility gone.
Lut patted his chest. "Lut." He pointed at her, a quiet question she immediately understood.
"Mei," she answered with a small smile. "Mei."
Waking in his tent, Lut took his first breath of the morning and smiled. The cold before dawn, the darkness of his tent, scoured his body until every hair raised, every muscle seized. Unlike the year before, an ache did not settle in the nooks and crannies, only a freshness that hearkened back to his younger days. Lifting both arms, he rested the back of his head in his hands, slowly wiggling all ten toes until the stiffness left.
He emerged long before anyone else for the last day of Shur’s war festival. Standing under the oak trees, he fell forward onto his hands, starting his calisthenics. Popping up and down, he had already reached one hundred push-ups when Dras emerged from his own tent, yawning loudly as he started to stretch his naked body. They warmed up among the hundreds of tents clustered around them, and the hundreds among hundreds of the Roofed warriors who simply slept in their blankets out on the grass or in the shadows of the glades, their weapons never far from reach.
"How did you sleep?" Dras called when the sun peaked through the slim pines. Covered in a smattering of sweat, he bobbed on his feet, rolling his shoulders out.
Lut did not interrupt his squats. "Like I was dead."
Coming together at their mutual fire, they said little as Lut prepared their breakfast, a small meal of quail eggs and oat gruel Mei had assigned both of them to keep their energy, digestion, and strength from diminishing. They nibbled their way through the chunky mush, dealing with the less appetizing portion first before feasting upon the rich eggs.
They were at the end of the meal when Mei finally appeared, crawling from her own lean-to that was nestled between the two guards Lut had assigned to her. A human in a society that saw them as little more than cattle, she had proved her worth as a healer among the Roofed, though many begrudged her presence. Fed back to health, she was beautiful in an odd sense, with her firm figure and oil-black hair. Dressed in a sack-dress belted to her narrow hips, she met them with a sad smile.
"Morning," she said in accented Wagani. "You two eat?"
Lut responded with a wordless nod. Quiet yet calm, she came to the fire between him and Dras, who set their hands on their hips and extended their legs, feet near the embers to keep their toes warm. She drew fourteen needles for each of them and went about pinning them in the joints of their wrists, shoulders, knees, and necks. Free of any aches and covered in a fine sweat, Lut focused on the embers before him, letting his mind drift off until it was time to march on the field to watch the Champion’s Round—the first he would let go un-attempted.
His meditation was broken when one of his lieutenants, Bur, ran toward their camp. "Lut, Dras! The Black Hoods approach! They are taking the center of the valley, north of the pit!"
A chill ran down Lut's spine as he bolted to his feet. To come this far, away from her pond...
"Lut," Dras shouted. "Orders!"
"Bur," Lut said, "take four of the fastest runners in camp and swing around the pit's southern edge, staying out of sight if you can. Tell Tar and his Roofed to mobilize at the tree line. Do it now."
"Aye, raidlord." Bur darted away without hesitation.
Dras drew close. "What do we do once we form at the tree line?"
Lut turned from his friend, heading to his tent to recover Ravager. "What else would we do?"
Thousands of warriors, armed with iron and their faces hidden under black sackcloth, stood in regimented lines at the pit's northern boundary, their booted feet inches from where the mud had been dug into a distinct wall. They waited silently as the Roofed edged the green woods. The sun beat the grassy basin when Lut and Dras finally went to meet the horde, dressed in the bits of armor they had brought with them. They reached the pit's southern edge, two warriors standing before hundreds of brooding killers.
With Bloodtide on his shoulder, Dras leaned close to whisper. "You start."
Lut broke ahead, his voice raised as he called to those before him. "The war festival is designated holy ground, where mortal blood can be shed, bodies split by holy iron," he shouted, holding Ravager high for all to see. "Who dares me first?"
From the center of the hooded
raiders' forward line stepped a lone figure, his face obscured as he descended into the pit. Holding his spear out in a sign of non-aggression, he stabbed it into the mud-caked floor. "We have come with no malice intended, Lut, traitor to the highest."
"'Traitor to the highest'," Lut whispered, nearly smiling at the title. "It was your ilk that interrupted this day, but what is to be expected of those who hide their faces? Surely you would shed your hoods if you truly meant to partake in this day, where fear cannot shy behind cloth."
The hooded representative laughed at the notion. "We will keep our hoods on, traitor, but we will put our arms away if you put away your own."
“For what sake?” asked Dras.
The Black Hood hooked his thumbs into his belt, at ease with the tension. “Our lady wishes to speak to her former consort. She waits for him in the sunset woods in the east.”
"A moment," said Lut, troubled by the offer given. He retreated to where Dras waited on their side of the pit. "What do you think?" Lut asked, making certain he spoke low enough that he could not be heard.
Dras chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared across the field, his black eyes scanning the rows gathered before them. "She didn’t have to come here. A god has never come to Shur’s war festival."
Lut cracked a sardonic smile. “Maybe she missed me.”
Dras grunted his at dark humor. "It is your decision, Lut. I follow you."
Looking over his shoulder, Lut studied the army set on the pit's northern edge, marveling at how destiny had shaped his days. A question lingered in his thoughts. "Dras," he asked, curious. "What boon would you ask for?"
“What?”
“Those two times we fought.” Lut looked him square in the eyes. “If you had won, what would you have asked for?”
Dras furrowed his brow at the question. "I've never worried about it. I only ever focused on beating you."
Shifting in a great sigh, Lut nodded at the answer. "You would’ve been a better champion than I."
