by Jeff Gunzel
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This is going to be a slaughter, the warrior thought to himself. More than fifty trained mercenaries would be attacking an unsuspecting village in the middle of the night. “Where is the honor in this?” the giant grumbled while fingering the handle on his axe, a handle shaped to represent the head of a wolf, complete with fangs and yellow eyes. If that wolf could talk, it would brag of the many souls taken over the years, none of which had been taken through anger or vengeance, but simply because that was the job that needed doing that day.
Leaning back in the saddle of his great warhorse, he eyed the men to his left and right without looking directly at them. It always seemed easier to prepare for battle when there were no distractions of morality or even friendship. He tried not to engage in any small talk or even make eye contact with friends before his “job” needed doing.
“You don’t like your duty now...huh, Morcel?” spoke the man to his right in a low, grumbling voice while looking around at everyone else, trying to gather approval for his jest.
The men in the immediate area let out a forced laugh but kept their eyes low. Forced because it was no secret how Morcel viewed such missions, and a touch nervous because there was not a man here who wanted to suffer the wrath of this killer merely over a jest.
The warrior’s head whirled around and looked directly at the man, who flinched, seemingly unnerved by the sudden attention given by those bright green eyes—a piercing, unnatural green that seemed like two emeralds gleaming in the dark.
“I’m glad you’re up to the task of killing women and children, Grom,” said Morcel in a rather lighthearted fashion as he leaned in close. “If any of the larger women give you trouble, I promise to protect you,” he said smugly.
Booming laughter echoed through the camp while an embarrassed Grom dipped his head and began fiddling with the reins of his horse.
Morcel decided not to push it any further. There was nothing to be gained by starting any arguments over something as out of place as morals, especially before preparing to purge a town of women and children. Besides, he had no bad blood towards Grom, or anyone else here for that matter. Most here were just following orders to earn some coin.
Sure, there were always the ones that actually enjoyed the killing. Some even enjoyed the victims screaming and pleading for their lives, as if it were some sort of game. They were no different than boys burning ants with a looking glass, trying to play god. But he wanted to believe most viewed all of this similar to the way he did: just hoping to get this cowardly act over with so they could go back to their wives, or whores, or whatever their illusion of love may be.
“Line up, you soulless leathers!” cried a booming voice from the back of the group.
“Leathers” was simply a nickname given to mercenaries, who were often described as leather—hard and tough, but not very refined.
“When the scout gives the signal, we charge, got it?”
Whistling and cheering followed the blunt command, for these men were killers, but clearly not soldiers.
“Arrowhead formations now,” said Belar in that deep, authoritative voice. “Leave none alive…” His voice trailed off as he spoke the hollow sentence his heart wanted no part of.
Belar was a tall, thin man who had seen his share of battles. This was certainly evident by the numerous scars across his chest and back, none of which could be seen due to his jet-black full-body leather armor. However, no visual evidence was needed to convince anyone of his past or skill set. His steady voice and dominant stare spoke a thousand words. The man could be giving instructions on how to sew, and the whole world would stop and listen.
Belar didn’t like this any more than Morcel did, but he had even less of a choice. Belar was the captain of the guard for the town of Athsmin, and had been sent to lead the pack of leathers in this mission.
The sleepy farmers’ town known as Brinton had been climbing in rank due to several good crop seasons and many well-run family businesses the last few years. Naturally, this was seen as a threat to the financial well-being of Athsmin, so that was it, then—wipe them out and blame local bandits for the unfortunate fate of the town. The militia back in Athsmin would take no part so no one could trace the slaughter to their doorstep. Not that any real investigation would ever take place. Such politics were not only accepted, but silently applauded as long as no witnesses remained. Only the strong survived in this harsh world, and none of the larger cities had any real reason to look into such grave misfortunes that befell smaller, insignificant towns.
Leathers had no loyalties and were known to do a thorough job. They always had a price, and their services could be bought for minimal coin. The only real instruction given to Belar was to keep these guys in line...and finish the job. That was all he planned to do. He was well aware that although they were all skilled killers, they had little real military experience, and trying to set up teams of various battle formations would do no good. Not that any real tactics would be needed this day. All there was to do now was wait for the signal from the scout they had sent in around an hour ago to be sure the streets were mostly empty. As long as he could walk to the center of town undetected, that would be good enough.
A burning arrow shot straight up into the night sky from the center of the sleepy town.
“Charge!” yelled Belar to virtually no one, as every leather was off in a flash long before the arrow reached its zenith. The thunderous sound of steel horseshoes pounding the hard ground echoed into the night as they roared down the hill and through the streets. Street lanterns cast their shadows on wooden shops and homes, the buildings hardly distinguishable from one another in the dim light as war shouts echoed off them.
By the time they had fully penetrated the town, there seemed to be no resistance at all. Many of the leathers had dismounted their horses for the simple reason that they could cover more ground without them. This was no battlefield, where the high ground would bring a significant advantage. It was simply a matter of kicking in doors and killing the contents inside. Grown men, women, infants, dogs; it made no difference. In order for the leathers to get paid, everything needed to die. The first wave, still mounted, charged clear through the town with reckless abandon. There was no fear of retaliation or even of some peasant getting off a lucky shot. Their plan was to clear the way and strike down any mounted defense that happened to have been quickly assembled. There was none to speak of.
The clopping sounds of horseshoes cracking against the stone roads cascaded in all directions. As Morcel galloped down street after street with his axe in hand, ready to strike anything that moved, a dark feeling crept over him. This was going to be worse than he thought. There was no militia coming out to deal with this threat. The leathers had undoubtedly made their presence known by now. He knew from countless battles that this was a total sign of submission. Everyone was hiding, and they would have to go door to door, killing families in their own living rooms. Let the bloodthirsty have their fun; I have no taste for killing infants. Morcel had known the whole time that it might come to this; he’d just hoped that it wouldn’t. He didn’t mind the helpless feeling of being completely outnumbered with certain doom looming, but strangely, this was gut-wrenching to him.
Dismounting his horse, he leaned against a street lantern on the side of the road and watched the impending chaos erupt all around him. Door after door was being smashed in as the savages ran into homes, followed by the chaotic screams from the families inside. Many did not even draw their swords as they entered, clearly having no fear of the trembling souls inside. He watched as entire families were pulled into the street and killed in front of one another. Some of the leathers went about it in a swift, businesslike fashion, hacking through entire families like cutting down weeds in a yard; showing no emotion at all, just wanting to get this done and gather their coin.
Others rather enjoyed the game, and made family members choose who would die first. Of course, the twisted request was alw
ays followed by incoherent wailing and screaming, finally ending with the gurgling sounds of slashed throats. They never let it play out too long for fear they would miss out on other victims, acting like greedy children fighting over candy at a festival even though they could not even finish what they had already collected.
The whole thing felt like a dream as the warrior walked down the street, seeing death on every corner. Half-naked women were dragged along by their hair, while others were thrown from second-story windows. Frightened men swung shovels at their would-be attackers while the leathers just laughed, easily dodging the amateur attacks.
It seemed odd to Morcel how similar all the executions were—every person pleading and begging for their lives with no more hope than to buy themselves a few more seconds in this world. With only a few exceptions, they didn’t even try to fight back. The mind of a warrior simply could not understand that.
The town was quite small, and he could see that most of the doors had been kicked in by now. I just want this over with. I won’t take any pay. I just want to get back home.
Just then, in an alley behind the local blacksmith’s shop, a sound caught his attention. Above all the anguished sounds echoing through the burning town, he somehow heard the bloodcurdling screams of a child.
Racing into the alley, the scene before him sent a tidal wave of emotion through him. There was a young boy no older than twelve bent completely naked over a broken bench, with two leathers holding him down. A third was standing behind them with what appeared to be the boy’s older sister wrapped in a tight bear hug. The fat, bearded man kept lifting her head back as he urged her to watch.
Thrashing wildly, the young girl of sixteen or so screeched at the top of her lungs, “Let him go. By the gods, let him go!” The horror in her eyes seemed to go beyond the fear of her own death.
Morcel followed her horrified gaze back to the boy, and could hardly believe his own eyes. The first leather, a thin man with a long, pointed beard and oversized black hat, pinned the head and shoulders of the boy to the bench while the other, even thinner man continued to push the handle of his dagger deep inside him. The child, no longer screaming, looked up at Morcel with a contorted expression, his mouth hanging wide open. It was unclear whether he had no air left in his lungs to scream with, or if the deformed look with his eyes rolled back into his head was simply from shock.
The scene sent a rage through the warrior that he had not felt in years. Of all the men he had killed in his lifetime, some deserved it, others did not, but it had never felt personal before. He wanted to scream about honor and the ways of the warrior, yet not a single word left his lips. The warrior instead did something that would change his life forever.
The two men were a good ten feet away, but with freakish speed for a man his size—or for any man, for that matter—he closed the distance in a fraction of a second. Gripping the wolf-head axe, he never remembered drawing it and slashing across the throat of the man to his left. Spinning like a tornado, he continued the axe’s path in a complete circle and gashed open the belly of the other before the first even fell.
Warm blood sprayed across the alley walls. The first man’s eyes bugged out of his head, as if someone were pushing them out of their sockets from inside his skull. His tongue hung grotesquely from a wide-open mouth that tried to scream, but only produced a sickening gurgle while his body hung backward. Then those bulging eyes looked straight up as his whole body finally tipped over. The second man simply lay draped over the poor boy like a dripping sack of gore, with his intestines strung to the side.
The warrior spun towards the last would-be threat only to find his situation was not so much better than his friends’. The girl appeared to have pulled two daggers out of thin air and was slashing in a circular pattern around the third leather’s head, a tactic Morcel had seen many times to throw an opponent off balance.
The trained mercenary made a quick hand movement towards the inside of his leather armor and produced a dagger of his own, then slashed twice at the girl in what appeared to be one clean, skilled movement. The first slash caught nothing but air, for the girl easily ducked under the lightning-quick strike. The second slash clanged loudly, and was solidly intercepted by the girl’s own dagger. The parry was followed by five snakelike strikes of her own, three of which found their home right across the man’s face.
Knowing her strikes were true, the girl immediately jumped back, holding one knee pressed to the ground while holding both daggers crossed in front of her face—clearly a defensive stance—waiting to see if her opponent would counter. Howling in agony, the leather stumbled backwards as he waved his dagger blindly in the general direction of the girl. She did not pursue her attacker, but watched him fumble around, covered in his own blood. Watching him, she waited...and measured. The very second he slowed down from flailing at nothing, she sent her dagger through the air, like an arrow shot from a long bow. It buried deep into his eye socket. She then closed the distance and quickly retrieved her dagger from its temporary home, slashing across his throat twice with her remaining blade, all with lightning-quick precision.
The corpse jolted, remaining upright for a second longer, then collapsed to the ground. The girl whirled around furiously to make sure there were no other immediate threats.
What did I just see? That was impossible! Shaking his head in disbelief, Morcel focused his attention on the girl, who was now floating towards him with all the grace of a panther sneaking through tall grass. All common logic told him he couldn’t be in any danger; she was just a young girl. But his internal warrior instincts—instincts built up through many battles—had him on edge, and he could not ignore the alarm going off in his head. Before he’d even realized it, she was face to face with him.
The girl, still gripping both bloody daggers, was rather unassuming: slight of build, with long, black hair flowing down past her shoulders, but her eyes were every bit as intense as Morcel’s. Even in this dark alley, he could see her brilliant, crystal-blue eyes burning with intensity. The two met each other’s gaze unblinkingly. Deep-blue crystals locked with shiny green emeralds.
“Get out of here quickly,” the warrior rumbled, not taking his eyes off the girl for a second. She held his gaze a few more seconds, which felt like minutes, then bowed deeply. She clearly was not afraid of him, and he could not help but wonder if fate somehow had a sense of humor. It seemed, in hindsight, he had helped the one person in the village who needed it the least.
The blue-eyed girl stepped towards the boy, who had not moved a twitch through any of this, then suddenly twirled to face Morcel again. “No!” she screamed.
Crash.
White-hot pain shot though the back of the large warrior’s head. It jolted down his spine and sent dizzying waves of nausea through his whole body. Wha…what just happened? Who…have to… His clouded mind couldn’t hold on to a coherent thought. The world seemed to spin all around as the ground came up to meet him with a thud. Clinging to consciousness by a thread, he watched as the girl appeared to be sprinting along the wall sideways then disappear into the night.
“Go after the girl!” came a muffled voice from behind him. It sounded far away to his barely conscious mind.
Now even farther away, he heard someone saying, “Kill the boy and take the traitor.”
“What are we going to do with him?” came a fuzzy reply.
“We will say he attacked one of us. No one will question everyone’s word against his. Soon he’ll be just another slave.”
