It's a Good Day to DieThe truth of it? Things had gone to ****
quicker than the old man at camp had said and the wretches were moving
to the north, arching a wide path around the edge of the forest and
planned to come out in front of that damnable fortress. He choked,
gagged, and sputtered water as he pulled at the muddy riverside, muscles
straining as he heaved himself up onto bank. Raspy breaths rose up in
his chest, and the wind bit at him, his body shaking hard in response.
And now two of his best men were back in the mud and the only archer
they had worth any salt in a battle. He turned back to the smiling
river, jagged teeth of stone ever grinning. '****** on it...' He thought while forcing his body to
stand.
'That was a fool's fight and we
strolled into it merrily. How stupid were we not to foresee that others
would come?' Bale's gaze rose from the river, trailing up the
cliff face and landing at the spot he'd fallen from. He might not be
much, but Stone Eyes figured there must be some worth in him to some
deity up amongst the stone gray clouds. The only thing that had kept him
alive was the wretch he managed to drag down with him, the beast
bearing most of the impact when they finally hit.
Bale prodded at his ribs with a wary finger only to seethe in response.
Lifting up his wet rag of a shirt, the dark purple stains running along
his torso were clear as day and tender to the touch. He didn't think any
ribs broke, but he wouldn't know until numbing cold and his remaining
adrenaline faded. The latter was slowly starting drift away, but the
cold was only getting worse. A light breeze ran in between the trees and
brush, blowing past the chasind as if he were just another beast of the
Wilds, and to some people, that description wasn't too far from the
mark. He shook again, harder this time, as he tramped through the slush
of wet earth and fallen leaves with a steady jog, trying desperately to
bring some warmth to his shivering body. The sun might have helped, but
light (and subsequently, warmth) scarcely ever made its way through the
thick, overlapping branches of the forest canopy.
No, this wasn't the best of spots he'd found here, but it's what he had to work
with: wet, cold, alone, injured, and unarmed. But he supposed if he
should thank anyone for that, then the wretches would be a fine old
place to start. They'd been settling the nearby territory for weeks now,
scattering the clans throughout the massive area the Wilds covered and
forcing individual groups into self-reliance. There'd be no help from
other chiefs like Tull or Grenn, who had cleared out and taken their
people on the path north to safer lands, an idea that seemed to Bale as
sensible, but it was rare that sensible ideas cut their way through the
thick walls surrounding the old man's head. Ironfist was just that sort
of man.
"Too consumed with his own pride, that one," his father would say, "they follow him, it'll be the death of all we know." And at this point, those words had gone from mere talk to the truth as the
old man sent them off in groupings of threes and fours to be slaughtered
or maimed, leaving all those back in the small settlement with little
hope of survival should the horde come across.
He shook those thoughts from his mind and kept his lumbering, yet consistent,
pace along the river bank. Bale's path took him south with the current,
the image of the narrow bend the water made hanging in his mind. He had
to hope he could cross there; he had to hope the wretches had moved on,
he had to hope they left something for him to use. That was an awful lot
of hoping, but seldom their came a time when he didn't have some
thought for which to cling to.
Stone Eyes was lucky to find
that the remainder of his path was relatively untouched by darkspawn or
anything else. The small drop from the ground to the water made it a
treacherous crossing for any animal looking to make it to the other side
and most people wouldn't risk it here. The tangle of weeds and plants
he pushed through in conjunction with the knee high grass, gave him
comfort in the fact he'd be the only beast in this forest fool enough to
follow the river so close, but that was what he was counting on. And
not long into his jaunt, he came across the spot he was looking for. The
river seemed only a few yards in width here and the overhanging ledge
he stood on was elevated just high enough so that one might be able to
make a jump to the other side. Not the most practical of plans, but it
was the quickest way he knew, so with those thoughts on the mind, Bale
reared back and plunged off the side, passing through air for only a
moment before his boots sank into the muck on the other side. The
warrior managed a grin despite the bleak circumstances surrounding his
situation and took one glance backwards before working his legs into
another slow, steady jog.
It wouldn't be too long after
that before for Bale stumbled upon the place he'd been looking for. He
saw the blackened fire pit where the flames had long since diminished
with half-burned sticks and ashes scattered about it; the big log they
all had shared a seat on was just to the right of it. He felt a churning
in his stomach force the remainders of his breakfast up his throat, but
he managed to hold down the bits of deer meat and bile by choosing to
breathe through his mouth as opposed to the nose.
The stench of corpses
was anything but pleasant and it was an odor no one ever got used to
despite the foolish bragging of some. Plain and simple, it reeked like
the incense of hell and the source was a lean body slumped up against a
tree at the center of their small camp, still and unmoving, most like a
result of the dagger that had been shoved mercilessly into his back,
nearly to the hilt and cross guard. 'Timmet...' The boy had been killed in the middle
of firing, his last moments cemented with death. A determined look with
his hands still clenched around both bow and arrow, his spot of kneeling
just right to oversee the bloodshed from a safe vantage point. For what
good it did him. Moving forward with weary steps, Bale stood over the
lifeless form and looked upon the scene as Timmet might have. There was a
small decline that sloped down into the pile of bodies that consisted
of Cal, Rud, and about two dozen wretches, but to his relief, not a
single one of them was up and about.
It seemed as if the main group had
moved on, but he wouldn't waste time waiting around to see if they had
forgotten something. Working quickly, he reached and clenched his hands
around the knife buried in Timmet's neck tearing it free with a single
jerk. The body slipped down slowly, till the youthful archer was lying
flat on his back, slowly sinking into the mush below. Stone Eyes took a
moment to bow his head in respect before jamming the weapon into the his
belt. One could never underestimate the usefulness of a good knife, and
this one was as good as any, even if it had been a wretch's.His
coat was there too, wedged under the log, battered and scarred from
years of weather and war, torn and stitched back together, missing half a
sleeve, and his pack was lying shapeless in the brush nearby, its
contents strewn out down the slope. He crouched, breathless, throwing it
all back inside. A length of rope, his old clay pipe, some strips of
dried meat, needle and twine, a dented flask with some liquor still
sloshing inside. All good. All useful. The only thing left would be a
good blade, that, above anything, would be his closest comrade in the
hours to come Bale imagined. He thought of inching his way down to the
battlefield in hopes of finding his own hand-and-a-half sword, but he
didn't plan on risking it.
'No,'he thought inwardly. Were it his luck there'd be some beast sitting there,
hoping he'd come back as to gut him the second he walked by. No, there
was little choice other than to make his way back toward the village and
await another of Ironfist's delusional commands. The others would be
warned whether the old fool would hear it or not. He needed to move his
people north, and if were to do it he would have to do so soon.Bale
looked to the ground and as expected, Timmet had made sure his blade
was close on hand. Reaching down, Stone Eyes snatched it up and strapped
it to his back along with his bag. North was his heading, so north is
where he went.
------
Gareth walked in total
silence, the winds themselves seemed to have had the life choked out of
them. Dead. Something he just narrowly avoided experiencing himself. As
he followed the pathway he heaved a sigh of relief. He didn't planning
on feeling the Maker's embrace anytime soon. Still, he was not able to
shrug off his past experiences. Just hours before, he was part of an
elite scouting team. He had been granted the honor of following House
Cousland's heir, Fergus, into the wilds. "Scouting party...sodding brilliant," he thought. "Their scouting party found us."
He
shuddered, remembering the attack in perfect clarity. Even as he walked,
his memories came to life in his mind.
- - -
Fergus
walked through the mud, the wind howling at their backs. The tree
branches swayed and jerked, nature itself seemed to warn them to turn
back. Some soldiers grew nervous, others looking back and forth warily.
"Forward!" Fergus shouted with confidence, "I have a wife and child to
come home to. The sooner we find the horde, the sooner we win! And the
sooner we win, the sooner we go home!" His soldiers cheered in response,
the party's spirits were lifted, for the moment. Gareth walked close by
his royal commander, sword and shield gripped tightly in his hand; he
would not let any harm come to that man. These men were supposed to be
the best at being discreet and quiet. But ultimately, they were still
human. Fears of a larger dark spawn horde made them wary, and the scale
of their mission did not help them alleviate their worries.
However,
they picked the right man to lead this mission. If anyone was able to
relieve fears or sooth concerns, it was Fergus. To Gareth, Cousland's
heir had a charisma that rivaled King Cailan himself. Even against one
of the world's most dangerous foes, Lord Fergus managed to maintain a
non-chalant and laid back appearance. "Captain," Fergus commented
jokingly, "If you stay any closer to me you'll be riding on my back."
Gareth immediately gave the commander an extra foot of ground.
"I'm sorry my lord, I am simply trying to-"
"I know Gareth, but I was trained just as you were."
"Yes, of course sir...it's just-"
"Besides, if something does happen with you so close, you won't even have the room to strike or block."
"I...right, sir."
"And one more thing Captain,"
"My lord?"
"Would you relax?"
"Er...yes sir!"
Trying
to relax, he relinquished his grip on his weapons; sheathing his sword
and placing his shield onto his back. "We
can do this...if anyone is qualified for this, it's us," Gareth
thought to reassure himself. As the troops walked, footman Brinksley
told tales he had claimed to hear of the Chasind, and the stories of
Flemeth; the witch of the wilds was supposedly living in the very woods
they tread upon. He spoke of barbarian bandits who swooped out from the
trees, killing and looting careless travelers, while kidnapping women
who strayed too far from home. Not long after, corporal Shilts began
telling a story about a spirit named, "Gaz" or something, but Gareth
wasn't paying enough attention to hear it. He surveyed the trees around
him, "Cut the chatter!" he exclaimed, "You're soldiers, act like it!"
All
the men straightened up and quieted down, though their snickering and
muted laughter could still be heard amongst the rank and file. Towering
above the rest of his comrades, Brinksley's smirk was still there for
all to see, and Shilts' loud snorts overpowered everyone else's hushed
chatter. Those were the last sounds of cheer he'd heard yet.
Suddenly,
the wind stopped, and a feeling of despair permeated through the
forest. Everyone fell silent, and Fergus whispered to Gareth, "Watch
out...something isn't right." That much had seemed obvious to the
captain. He scanned his surroundings for anything suspicious. Though the
wind was muted, Gareth could hear the rustling of leaves. Then he
looked left, towards the river. The moving water had stopped, the flow
now stagnant. A decaying arch that had been losing its fight in the
battle against time. The sounds of rocks crumbling whispered into his
ears, as a small piece of debris from the arch fell into the lake,
ripples pushing out around it. These subtle noises worried him.
"The Koccari Wilds have never been so calm."Finally,
as if nature was sounding a great hunt of its own, a choir of wolves
howled in unison. Just then, the ground quaked, the earth rumbled
underneath them. In his gut, Gareth knew from that moment what was
happening, but he hoped to the Maker his feelings were wrong.They
weren't.
The path they walked upon tore open and tortured
shrieks wailed around them. Just as fast as the holes opened, malignant
horrors leaped out of them and the ground itself collapsed, sealing the
crevices almost immediately. Even a child would have recognized these
monstrous beings: Darkspawn.
Trained
as he was, Gareth still struggled to stop his fears from taking over.
His saving grace lied in his authority. "SCHILTROM FORMATION!" he
bellowed, "Protect Lord Fergus!" Hesitant at first, the rectangular
formation broke as the soldiers created a double layered circle. The
outer edges were composed of traditional footmen armed with swords and
shields; side by side these troops created an effective barrier against
both arrows and blades. Meanwhile, the second layer consisted of
spearmen placed at the center of each pair of footmen to act as the main
offensive posture.
Gareth Dorne stood firm with his
brothers in arms. Brinksley stood by with him on his left, his face
colored with grim determination. While most of the soldiers held kite
shields locked together, this soldier's massive size granted him a
significantly larger tower shield that rested on the ground itself.
Everyone that Brinksley stood alongside showed a visible confidence with
him as their champion. In alarmingly stark contrast, Shilts seemed to
still be laughing to himself, completely unfazed by the situation; he
held a peculiar armament of his own. Far more thin and lithe compared to
most soldiers, Shilts held twin hooked blades in an "X" form. Unable to
bear the weight of a shield (let alone block with one), he was much
more effective breaking the momentum of an enemies attack by catching an
enemies attack and using their momentum against them. Any ordinary unit
would not dare take Shilts as a front line combatant, but Gareth didn't
lead an ordinary unit.
In seconds, the darkspawn were upon
them. Genlocks, small little goblin-like creatures ran towards them
screeching. Those holding spears couldn't reach them, but it didn't
matter. Simple kicks or a slash from a sword easily dispatched these
monsters. Raising his tower shield above his head, Brinksley crushed
three genlocks at once; a splatter of black blood stained the ground
around him. Eventually, larger darkspawn approached, these ones were
actually the size of Brinksley. Looking like skinned men, these
monstrosities had become the universal face of the darkspawn. The
soldiers faltered.
Still, they held the line.
"I will not fail."Somehow
darkspawn began rushing in from all sides of the forest, and they threw
themselves at the humans' formation. In a matter of seconds, the
abominations obscured the rest of the woods, and arrows fell down like
water would in a flood.
Still, they held the line.
"I cannot lose."Another
large sized wretch threw itself at Gareth, only to be shoved back by
his shield and subsequently impaled by a spear to the throat. Shilts
hands flew faster than the eye could see, weaving a web of steel and
blood as darkspawn fell to his blades. As the battle raged on, Brinksley
suffered from a blow to the shoulder by an especially large hurlock. It
never did find satisfaction however, as the giant soldier wrapped his
arm around the neck of the creature, and crushing it even as it used its
jagged teeth to cut into his armor. Shilts began to bleed himself,
grazed by arrows even he could not deflect.
Still, they held the line.
"We must survive."After what felt like hours of combat, the
horde seemed to thin, and the weary fighters had renewed vigor. This
feeling would be crushed as soon as it came though, as the darkspawn did
not thin, they merely made room for something new. Once more, the
ground shook, but the earth did not open. While Brinksley and hurlocks
were called massive, the word had since appeared to be misused when this
monster stepped onto the field. With horns as large as the men
themselves, and arms that seemed to be twice their size, the Ogre came
charging onto the field.
The line had broken.
"...We're going to die."In a frenzy, several foot men ran, only to save the darkspawn the trouble
of getting to them as they were butchered by a sea of rusty blades. One
courageous soldier whom dared to hold his ground against the ogre
managed to find the same treatment Brinksley gave genlocks, as he became
a mat for the beast's foot. People were being killed left and right,
Gareth watched in horror as hardened soldiers became small children. One
fell to his knees crying for his mother as a pack of hungry genlocks
ate him alive. When Gareth heard Shilts cry out, he spun towards the
ogre, seeing how his lithe friend became a trophy stretched out onto
both of the ogre's horns.
Panic won over, and Gareth screamed,
"RETREAT, RETREAT, RETREAT!"
"We lost."It was already too late of course, as anyone
still part of the layered circle was simply there because that was where
they died. As the captain tried to cut open a pathway to escape, he had
managed to catch the gre's eye. Crashing its way through its own
compatriots, the behemoth towered over Gareth, who had fallen onto his
back from the manufactured earth quake the giant had created. It raised
its foot, and smashed into the ground over Gareth. Narrowly avoiding
death by rolling away, he tried to calculate how long he could last like
this.
A shout like no other rang through the air, that
even the darkspawn had stopped. A line was being made amidst the
battlefield with the horrors literally being tossed into the air.
Brinskley had gone into some sort of berserker fury as he threw his
shield behind him and launched himself onto the ogre's back, climbing up
it with his sword and bare hands. "GO, EVERYONE GO!" he screamed, "GO!
GO!" Tossing his shield as a makeshift projectile just as Brinksley had,
Gareth ran into the thickets of the forest and escaped, but not before
taking another arrow to the hip.
-----
Reliving
it for the second time, the Captain clenched his hip, until he finally
realized the gaping wound had been sealed. Snapping back to the present,
he stopped by the river he saw before the mission went to the Black
City. Taking off his gauntlets, he cupped his hands and drank deeply.
Once he had his fill, he stopped, and saw his reflection in the water.
His pale skin was covered in dirt and blood, while his long black hair
had passed through his helmet and covered part of his eyes. He saw a
fresh cut on his cheek, and a drop of blood landed in the water. As he
watched it, he saw more blood flow downstream to mingle with his. Both
red and black...he didn't know which color he hated to see more.
Standing up, he looked at sword and his sword and unsheathed it. He started
walking, though he couldn't even remember where he was going.
'Time to get moving.'
Modifié par Riknas, 14 mars 2010 - 08:29 .
Retour en haut
