Depending on what the girls seemed like, he sometimes left out the parts where he’d been a petty criminal and had been given the choice of joining the army or serving a lengthy prison sentence. That had been one of the easiest decisions in his life. Get paid, fed, and clothed or rot in a cell?
There was always the possibility of actually dying or being maimed in battle, but The Kingdom had been at peace with its neighbors for a long time. There were rumors of shady men running around killing each other, but hosts of soldiers hadn’t been involved in a good long while.
If something did happen it would be all hard men who knew their business taking care of it and knights trampling each other for glory. Men like him usually got stuck pulling guard duty out in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere like Fort Pleasant.
It turned out the army life had been good to him. And had led him here to Fort Pleasant. Add in a few taverns that didn’t mind serving what passed for soldiers around here, and life over all had been quite enjoyable. Downright Pleasant. Until a besieging army showed up without warning.
Well, it wasn’t completely without warning. Plenty of refugees had been crowding into the fort from the countryside. Miners and farmers who’d heard that the Mountain Men were taking The Fringe back in blood and fire and thought it better to take shelter in the fort. They had naturally brought their families with them. More and more came until it seemed to Eric that the entire population of The Western Fringe was crowded into the fort today.
Just word of mouth from men fleeing a fight. Why wasn’t there better warning of something going on?
Speaking of which, Eric thought, what happened to the scouts that passed through here a few weeks back? They should have picked up the trail of the raiders easily enough and either dealt with them or returned to resupply. A good number of them had arrived, led by a true high ranker. The man who’d commanded them had outranked even the garrison commander here at the Fort.
He’d been one of the hard ones, that man. The men everyone looked to when it came time to cut a few throats. He’d be among the men doing the actual fighting. Eric hadn’t spoken to the man, but he’d seen him. Seen the way he moved and the way the men under his command acted. And that told him all he needed to know. It seemed odd that someone like that was running around putting out brush fires in the west and responding to calls for help from the backwaters. The fort they’d gone to hadn’t even had a name.
But then again, maybe whatever was happening out there required the attention of a man like that. Armies of raiders coming out of nowhere, and not just pillaging but laying siege to forts and killing watchmen, esteemed watchmen much like himself, with strange weapons.
Any man on the walls these past few days knew well to hide behind the battlements, lest he be killed. With what, it was hard to say. Out there among the Mountain Men, there walked gray men that looked to be forged from steel and with glowing eyes. They called down thunder on the men high on the walls.
Eric thought it bullshit the first time he’d heard it. But then he’d actually seen it. One of the gray men, out there almost too far away to see with certainty, had pointed at one of the watchmen on the wall. A clap of thunder sounded, though the skies had been clear and no lighting had been seen, and the ill-fated soldier met his end as his head and chest exploded. Foul magic, that, he thought. A messy end. A man didn’t even have a chance to fight and his friends left behind had to clean the bits and pieces of him from the walkway.
The same had repeated itself a dozen times or so. Now the men on the walls knew to keep their heads down. With the loss in immediate surveillance of the area, the garrison commander had confiscated all of the scrap iron to be found within the fort’s wall and ordered every available man to work. In a few days they had bundles of nasty little spikey things that Eric had heard called “caltrops”. They’d been launched over the wall and dispersed along the most likely avenues of approach with catapults.
It was unlikely that they would cause any significant casualties to attacking men, but the noises the men who stepped on them made would likely be enough to alert the men on the wall to their approach. A bastard thing, to be nearly crippled by some piece of scrap hidden in the grass Eric thought. But better some Mountain Man has a gimp foot the rest of his life than he draws a knife across Eric’s own neck while he slept.
Eric discreetly peeked out over the stonework fortifications again to take another look in the growing light of the early dawn. Yeah, there were still a lot of Mountain Men out there. A lot of banners, a lot of different colors of warpaint. A great group of men from different countries, or tribes or whatever it was they called themselves out there among the peaks of The World’s Spine.
As if on cue, Eric could make out two groups of men, roughly ten total, facing off with one another. It was hard to tell at this distance, but they looked to have different colors of warpaint on. At least he imagined so. The two groups of warriors were armed, as would be expected of men besieging an enemy fortification.
There was yelling and wild gesturing. Both with hands and with weapons. Men drew closer to one another and weapons went from being gestured with to be held at the ready. It certainly looked like some tribal rivalry was about to spill over into bloodshed. Who knows, Eric thought, they might all kill each other and I’ll be the one to bring the good news to the garrison commander. Instant promotion, bigger coin, and more girls, he concluded with a smile.
Eric’s daydreams were apparently not meant to be. The Mountain Men seemed to be about to come to blows with one another when one of the men covered in steel, ‘the gray men’ most had been calling them, intervened. His presence caused the would-be belligerents to back down. They may have lowered their weapons, but no doubt they exchanged promises of violence to be done at later times. Threats of heads collected as trophies and women taken as the same.
He ducked back behind the safety of the stonework atop the wall, visions of bare breasted farmer’s daughters rushing to reward his keen powers of observation still dancing across his mind. Their tits heaved side to side with every step they took, glowing smiles that spoke of near future activities spreading across their beautiful faces. Maybe later he thought as he grinned to himself.
Behind the safety of the fortifications atop the wall, Eric settled in and once more checked over his gear. He’d hoped earnestly that the day would never come when he actually had to use it, but now that that day seemed to have arrived, he hoped equally earnestly that it was in good condition and would work when needed.
He examined his bow first.
A solid weapon. Good wood and well built. He remembered the first time he’d used it. The draw weight on it had seemed ridiculous back then, and totally unnecessary. As he’d gotten used to it his strength had grown and it bothered him less and less. Over time he’d become a bit of a snob about it. Bows that were easier to draw were for lesser men. Weaklings as it were, unlike himself. He’d used it a few times when hunting deer and larger game out there on the plains. The same plains that the more than a thousand man army out there had come from.
It rarely took more than a single hit to put his prey down. Those that survived the first blow usually didn’t make it far before they succumbed to blood loss anyway. Eric supposed the same might be true of a man if he ever used his bow against one. He also supposed that time was very close at hand.
The distance the Mountain Men were camped at wouldn’t be much of a stretch to hit. In fact, Eric was certain he could hit more than a few of them at this range. The only problem was there weren’t enough men in the fort for a volley to make a difference. There weren’t really enough arrows either. He had a score or so in his quiver, but as far as he knew that was it.
Even if he did have more arrows, standing up to take aim out there at the raiders would just make him an easy target for the gray men and their thunder. He had no intention of dying. Far too much drinking and fornicating left ahead of him for it all to end now. He thought that was probably a pretty common sentiment among
men facing the possibility of their death. Did any of them ever think they’d drunk too much or fucked too much? Eric doubted it.
He ran his hands over the bow one more time. Well oiled and supple. Ready. He looked to his arrows. Twenty two he counted. Shafts straight and true. The steel heads on them were of a design to cause maximum tissue and bleeding damage to anything they hit. Great for hunting and good for men not wearing armor, like most of the Mountain Men out there beyond the wall. Not so good against men in decent armor. Probably useless against those gray men. He wished he’d had a few bodkins to send out at them. He’d seen them pierce old plate at a hundred yards during his training.
Then again, the bodkins hadn’t done Johann any good. He’d been the best shot out of the whole lot of men in Fort Pleasant. As soon as the Mountain Men had shown he’d started picking them off. The officers had made sure he’d gotten bodkins to test against the gray men. The first shot he fired had been a beauty. Two hundred yards if it was a foot. Even in the high wind it was dead on, incredibly adjusted for.
The arrow struck one of the gray men somewhere between his shoulder and his ear. It simply bounced off of his plate and a second later Johann was in bits and pieces with the sound of thunder rolling over the fort. Poor bastard, Eric thought.
He looked over his shield and sword next. A very basic circle of wood rimmed with steel and a few bands to hold it all together. He’d never really carried one since basic training. Most men out here didn’t bother. The same for the mail he was wearing now. On duty it was a rarity. Usually it was only worn when on patrol outside of the walls. But when the raiders had shown up each man was ordered to wear his mail at all times when on duty and keep it close by when off.
The same was unnecessary to say about a man’s sword. Perhaps back in the east a man could go about his business without a weapon on his person, or maybe just a sharp dagger, without fear of being killed. But this was not the east. While it was relatively peaceful within the walls of the fort, most men wouldn’t be caught dead without their blade close at hand. It was as much a fashion statement as it was a method of self-preservation.
Life in the west could be harsh. Doubly so to those unprepared to deal with it swiftly and violently. Even farmers tended to be armed at all times. Hell, Eric thought, they should be. Outside the walls without a weapon was asking for someone to claim your hide. Maybe things weren’t quite that bad, but the soldiers in the fort liked to exaggerate a little. Possibly to give greater meaning to their post or a sense of duty to themselves.
After all, what could be nobler, not to mention cooler, than being the thin line between civilization and madness? Without Eric and his brothers to keep the peace, the people of The Western Fringe would be little more than Mountain Men. Barely eking out their existence from their dirt farms. Killing and dying for little and living and rutting in the vast wilderness filth. Yes, life was harsh and brutal out here just like the men that called this place home. And the fine sword in his hand brought them both to heel.
The blade was sturdy. Solid steel. Standard issue. Sharp enough to get the job done, and tough enough to stay in one piece. The man who held it had been well trained, if untested. Much free time at Fort Pleasant had been spent in voluntary drills that were anything but. Each man here had spent more than his fair share of time swinging a blade in practice while being watched and berated by drill officers. Yeah, Eric thought, about a thousand more men with one of these in their hands and he might actually feel comfortable inside the walls of Fort Pleasant.
Despite his gear being good, his aim being true, and his training being… well his training was adequate, there simply weren’t enough men to hold the fort for long. They might be able to turn back two, maybe even three attacks on the walls or the gate. But after that they would be out of ammunition and with no reinforcements. It was just a matter of time until the Mountain Men broke through. Then Eric, his brothers, and the refugees hiding within the walls of the fort would be at their mercy.
Maybe the Mountain Men would be in a good mood and they’d let him go after taking his purse. More likely though, he might wind up the unwilling wife of one of them. Being used for the rough pleasure of a backwoods savage didn’t really appeal to him. He’d joined the army to avoid such a fate in jail, yet the possibility seemed to have followed him all the way from the east to here in the backwoods of the backwater of the last vestige of civilization.
Perhaps worse yet, or perhaps not, he might wind up a slave. Or worst of all, a war trophy. They’d been known to claim the heads of enemy warriors who’d shown skill in battle. He wasn’t too worried about showing skill in battle. He liked to think that when the time came he’d make a good accounting of himself, but he also realized it was equally likely that he’d accidentally stab himself or just be killed by the first man he faced.
Filthy savages, he mused.
Eric finished inspecting his gear and leaned back against the wall. He took a deep breath of the cool air. It was always nicer when it was cool and not actually cold. Tolerable being outside and the stink of the place wasn’t so bad.
Thinking of the stink of the fort, he noticed something odd. A smell like distilled spirits, but different. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Mildly sweet, he would have described it.
“The fuck is that?” Eric heard the watchman at the next position on the wall exclaim. He was about to ask what the man meant, then he heard it too. A hissing sound growing louder and louder. Like the father of all snakes was somewhere further down the wall. And he was pissed.
Eric began moving down the wall, towards the sound, drawing his sword from its sheath and holding it at the ready. Immediately the blade began to waver and his vision blurred. He stumbled with his next step and tried to catch himself, but he was out cold before he hit the ground.
He sprang back to his feet, seemingly only a second later. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. A dull throbbing ache passed through his teeth as if he had cracked a few of them when he fell. The light of day was much stronger than it had seemed only a moment before. Perhaps the sun was higher or his eyes were just more sensitive. Looking at anything that reflected too much light hurt. Things like armor and the large sword carried by the fur clad man climbing over the top of the wall a few paces from him.
Eric started momentarily at the sight. Somehow the Mountain Men had managed to put a siege ladder up and get men on it and then almost onto the wall in a matter of seconds. He looked towards the sun as he yelled a heavily slurred warning to whoever might be listening, trying to raise the alarm. His voice sounded to him as if he’d just spent a full night drinking hard with his friends. The sun was low on the horizon in the east. It hadn’t even been up last time he looked.
Something had happened, and whatever it was had cost him about half an hour he guessed by the distance the sun had risen. A thunder clap sounded and echoed over the walls. No lightning, he noted. Likely another watchman down at the hands of a gray man.
He stumbled towards the Mountain Man cresting the wall, wobbling as though he were drunk with each step. More hands showed, grasping along the top of the wall in multiple spots, coming from the wrong side. Shaggy heads with faces obscured by warpaint and something else he couldn’t name came into view as well. Something didn’t seem right about more than a few of them, but there was little time for Eric to stop and think it through. Somewhere a heavy bell started ringing. Someone had finally sounded the alarm. Or a priest at the local chapel had something he felt was important to share with everyone.
“Just kidding! I made it all up!” Eric imagined the priest yelling at his assembled flock.
Eric found his feet just in time to take a swing at the nearest Mountain Man climbing over the wall. He gripped his longsword with both hands and put all of his weight into the swing. It was awkward and his aim was off, but the man he attacked was forced to raise his weapon to defend himself. The force of the blow sent the Mountain Man plummeting backwards from the face of the wall, taking several other m
en with him as they attempted to climb the siege ladder below him.
Thunder sounded again and Eric ducked, hoping that whatever magics the gray men were using, they hadn’t chosen him as their target. He saw the upper edges of a ladder and grabbed it without thought. He stood and began pushing as hard as he could, bracing his feet against the rough stone beneath him.
With a great bout of exertion that tore the breath from his lungs he shoved the ladder away from the wall, sending it backwards and down, along with a half dozen or so raiders still clinging to it. The men on the bottom would be okay. The men at the top were right fucked, he figured.
He paused just long enough to draw his bow and nock an arrow before loosing it at another man climbing over the fortifications from a ladder. The arrow entered the left side of the man’s neck and passed clean through. He took a step looking confused and then collapsed. He didn’t move where he fell.
Steel sounded against steel somewhere behind him and he turned to see two watchmen trading blows with five or so raiders. The attacks of the raiders were undisciplined, but furious. The defense and attack of the watchmen was better, more skilled and practiced, but lacked in intensity. They seemed to be suffering from the same weakness that Eric felt.
His initial reaction was to leave them to fend for themselves and try to prevent more Mountain Men from gaining the top of the wall. He began to turn away from them but then recognized one of the men. Peter was his name. The dumbass wasn’t even wearing a helmet, Eric thought a fraction of a second before he realized that he wasn’t either. Where the hell had it gone?
No matter. Peter owed Eric no less than a month’s worth of wages lost across several games of dice. If he died, Eric would be out of luck on collecting that debt. He drew another arrow and put it in the back of one of the Mountain Men before switching back to his sword and charging at them.
Sons of the Gods Page 10
