“That pig be ready yet?” asked Derek, scraping the butt of his spear against the ground. “I be dying here.”
“I am dying here. You need to conjugate to present tense. Rarely do you actually use ‘be’ in reference to the self,” said Hafgan distractedly. Several of the men had asked him for coaching in the traders’ tongue, and he was happy to provide tips. One did learn best by teaching, but as with instructing fighting, Hafgan got irated at times.
“I be cutting a slice in a moment here,” said Paston, and the men chuckled good naturedly.
“You be getting me the first cut, I be right?” asked Osian, the smallest member of the budredda, but one who was well-regarded for his appetite. There was another round of chuckles, but it was forced. The howling from the compound again split the air, cutting through their merriment like a bitter mountain wind. Even bereft of the keening howls, true merriment was beyond the grasp of the Wasmer this evening, given that the Wasmer unit was supposed to march to war come morning. Not exactly a thrilling prospect for the men, though Hafgan himself had no plans to allow the march, at least not for his budredda. Sometime after high moons, Hafgan would wake the men and lead them away from this camp, away from the army. He would not allow these men to be killed fighting another’s war.
Though, where they would go was certainly a question to ponder.
For a time, the urgent howling ceased. The crackling of the fire and the sizzling of the pig were again the only sounds in the small camp of budredda. Each man seemed lost in their own thoughts. Perhaps they thought of the battle in the morning, or perhaps of the mystery of the compound. Or, maybe they were lost in memories of their own personal ghosts; gazing into a fire in the darkness tended to force a person to reflect on their past. Hafgan had to fight to avoid those thoughts, himself. Memories of his time with the Dyn Doethas, of the atrocities that he had committed, tended to infilitrate his mind when surrounded by the dark.
“Lieutenant, you say we be… we are marching to battle tomorrow,” said Derek, shattering the thick silence with his lisp. “What… What is battle like?”
Hafgan had no intentions for Derek—for any of them—to see battle come morning, but he might as well be honest. Some would balk at the suggestion of desertion, so filling the men’s empty stomachs with a hefty serving of fear might quell such hesitation.
“I have never experienced something on this scale, with thousands fighting thousands. But I have been in battles with dozens, if not hundreds.” That was a small lie. Battle, not battles. “It is a convergence of impossibilities. Men who should live, die, and men who should die, live. Luck and fortune serve as well as skill, though if you have neither, you are a dead man. A stray spear, deflected off a friendly shield, could skewer your organs. A spent arrow could catch you in the eye when you happen to look up. Or, you could stumble backwards and drain your skull on a rock. I could tell you that, by remembering your training, you will survive. But, I do not want to lie to you. Many of you will die tomorrow—”
“Many of you will die tonight,” a voice interrupted Hafgan, speaking Wasmer. Hafgan twisted to his feet along with the rest of the budredda, and all reached for their spears. Hafgan had insisted that they keep their weapons within arm’s length at all times.
Hafgan’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness ringing the fire, and the shapes came into focus. Wasmer, armed.
Siarl stepped into the light, his gray hair tied in a topknot, facial hair in traditional Wasmer warbraids. He held his own spear loosely in his wrapped hand, the long, twisted cloth the only provision for his injured wrist. Several men flanked him—two with swords—and there were other figures coming just-visible in the immediate darkness. Hafgan heard the crack of a stick behind him, the rustle of the underbrush to his left. The budredda were outnumbered and surrounded.
Hafgan had let the traditionalists sneak up on them.
“It has come to this then, Siarl?” Hafgan asked in traders’ tongue. “You dare to commit treason? You risk execution at the hands of the Rostanians.” His men were forming a circle as he spoke. He needed to buy some time so they could set up some semblance of a perimeter. They had drilled for this.
“Bah. The Rostanians? We are done with the Rostanians. They want us out of the way or dead. Tomorrow, attacking the flank with five hundred? A suicide mission,” Siarl said.
“That, at least, we can agree upon. If you are leaving then, there is no reason for bloodshed here. Let us go our separate ways.” Hafgan had little hope for it, however. These men had blood on their minds. It was evident in the way they held their weapons; Siarl had vengeance embedded in the minds of his men.
His empty stomach—like his budredda, he’d never even gotten a bite of the pig—was turning in knots. He began taking the deep breaths necessary to attain his heddwichen.
“No, budredda. We refuse to follow you, and we refuse to allow you budredda trash to continue besmirching the name of the Wasmer. Rostanian whipping boys is all you are. Human fuckers. We are true Wasmer, and I will not… We will not stand for you budredda play acting as human soldiers. Rather, it is better that you be put down,” Siarl snarled maliciously, baring his dual canines.
“You say ‘we, but I see only a portion of the traditionalists. It seems that your decisions, your hatred, might not be shared by all. It is a weak Wasmer who would rather attack under the cover of darkness than issue a formal challenge,” Hafgan said in a monotone. His own men had formed a circular perimeter and seemed ready for battle. Even so, they were obviously outmanned and probably terrified. Hafgan thought he smelled urine. In his hedwicchen, these thoughts and sensations were disconnected from his actions. He was already planning out fifteen possible next steps, depending on Siarl’s strategy.
Siarl pointed at Hafgan with his spear. “A bedrudda is not a Wasmer, and therefore cannot be challenged. I should have not allowed that farce back in Rostane.”
“You thought to embarrass me, back then. Now that you know that I am your better, you resort to treachery,” said Hafgan. Siarl did not react, but Hafgan noticed that a couple of his men flinch at the remark. “Fight me, and leave these men out of this.” Little chance of that, but Hafgan had to try.
“No.” Siarl shook his head grimly. “You are not Wasmer and neither are your dogs. Enough talk—men, forward!”
The attacking Wasmer rushed at the ring of budredda. Hafgan braced himself for Siarl’s rush, but the gray warrior held back while his men surged forward. Two Wasmer came at Hafgan simultaneously, both tall and broad, wielding sword and spear—likely the best traditionalist warriors that Siarl had to offer, given the honor of fighting the best of the bedrudda.
They lasted less than a minute.
When outnumbered and lacking a defensible position, one must attack. Hafgan left the circle of budredda, thrusting at the face of the attacker on this left. Evidently, the men had expected Hafgan to hang back and defend his position; he caught the first attacker directly in the eye. With a gurgle and a spray of blood and brains, the big man was pulled forward as Hafgan retracted his spear, his blade only briefly stuck in the eye socket.
The second Wasmer warrior swung a great bastard sword at Hafgan’s gut as Hafgan recoiled from his first attack. He dropped to his stomach, the sword sweeping just over his head. In his hedwicchen, he recognized that it had been a close call, but that knowledge did not cause him any hesitation. Instead, Hafgan rolled to one side, ending up behind the soldier as he overswung and stumbled forward. The man had likely expected to cut Hafgan completely in half with the blow. As he propelled himself to his feet, though, Hafgan thrust his spear right through the man’s lower back, into the gap between the bottom of his leather cuirass and his belt. The spear tore through the soldier, exiting out of his stomach.
If his hedwicchen had allowed him to grieve, Hafgan would have done so. These men were victims of their traditionalist beliefs, beaten into them at birth and further reinforced by Siarl. They didn’t deserve an ignoble death at the tip of his sp
ear.
Hafgan took a fraction of a second to survey the battlefield from his hedwicchen. Siarl’s remaining cronies stared, mouths agape, at Hafgan and the bodies of the soldiers, while Siarl simply watched with folded arms. Hafgan had a moment before they gained the courage to attack him. Behind him, his men were standing firm against the onslaught, thrusting their spears to keep the enemy at bay and working in pairs to wear them down. Though their camp had not been chosen for defensibility—who would have predicted an attack like this?—the positioning of the trees prevented a full-on rush from the Wasmer traitors. So, skill would play more of a role than luck.
Several howls split the air as they fought, overlaying the sounds of battle in an orchestra of rage, pain, and passion.
Hafgan stepped back into the ring of his budredda. Immediately next to him, Derek was fighting a losing battle against a smaller, faster man who spun his spear with great skill. Derek was already bleeding from a severe gash on his forehead, the streaming blood obscuring his vision. Hafgan cracked the attacking soldier in the back of his head, sending the man flying forward into Derek’s waiting spear.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I be needing your help on that one,” Derek said as he grinned, his teeth white islands in a sea of red as the blood from his head flowed down to his mouth. The smile remained for another second, as an arrow materialized in his neck. He went down without a whimper.
Hafgan began to twirl his spear with ferocious speed while he surveyed the field for the archer. There were only a few in the entire Wasmer unit. If there were more than one engaged in this attack, the budredda would be doomed regardless.
Crack! An arrow was deflected by his spear. Hafgan pinpointed the archer; he was just outside the ring of light, about twenty yards to the left of Siarl.
As the humans would have said, ass-fucking Ultner. He would have to expose himself on all sides to disrupt the archer. But, if he didn’t, his men would be dead, brought down one at a time from a distance as easy targets silhouetted against the firelight.
His hedwicchen, however, did not permit these fearful thoughts to dictate his actions or control his mind.
He stopped twirling his weapon and dashed forward. There were surprised shouts as he barreled one attacker over with his shoulder and then skidded under a hasty swing thrown by another.
The archer already had an arrow notched. He simply needed to draw back and shoot. If he had any acuity as a marksman, it would be difficult to miss a charging, six-and-a-half-foot tall Wasmer warrior.
But, having seen Hafgan easily dispatch two huge warriors a short time ago, the archer lost his nerve. He threw his bow in Hafgan’s path and began to run. It was an easy thing to slice through the man’s hamstring and then impale his fallen body.
Then, Hafgan was on the ground, falling to his knees. Blinding pain in his left hip, only partially masked by his hedwicchen. He spared a quick look.
No arrow, but one must have been deflected by his hip bone, as a small amount of blood was soaking through his breeches. Perhaps a bone was chipped in there; he couldn’t be certain right now. And there was no time for an examination, as he heard footsteps rushing toward his position.
Four Wasmer began to spread out around him as Hafgan twisted to his feet, trying to mask the pain like an injured predator.
Siarl, grim and fierce, buried the point of his spear into the ground.
“Your budredda are dying. I will call off the attack and let them go in peace if you surrender yourself to us,” Siarl said, the melodic Wasmer language a stark contrast against the violence in these woods.
The pain was great, and Hafgan was having trouble maintaining his hedwicchen. “Last I checked, the bodies of your traitors formed a barrier around my budredda. My brothers—the dogs, as you called them—will never give up the fight. While you be fighting for hate, we be fighting for brotherhood.” His monotone was breaking, as was his grammar. This had to be quick.
“Fine, then. No blunted weapons this time, you budredda sc—”
Hafgan jabbed to his right without looking, his spear only stopping when it hit the spine of the soldier trying to sneak up on him. Blood sprayed out of his severed neck like the great fountain in Rostane’s Periway Square. Hafgan hurtled over the falling body, grimacing as he landed on his injured leg.
Three left. More howls filled the air from the direction of the compound, louder than before. Perhaps riled up from the sounds of battle?
An arrow hit a tree to his left, nearly ricocheting into Siarl.
“Stop shooting, fool!” roared Siarl, stumbling away from the projectile.
One less problem, at least.
Hafgan tried rushing one of the warriors as they tried to flank him, but the man was ready, deflecting his attack. Siarl thrust at Hafgan then, but he managed to knock the spear aside with his hand, holding the spear with his other. The third man broke through his guard, his spear tip leaving a deep cut in Hafgan’s left side, just above the bleeding hip. The separate pains blended together in an agonizing fusion.
In the next pass, Hafgan managed to position a tree between him and the left-most warrior, and this time, he lunged at Siarl. Siarl easily batted his thrust aside, but it had been a feint. Hafgan gripped onto the spear with one hand and jabbed at the warrior’s face with his other. He managed to jam two fingers into Siarl’s eye, felt a pop, and yanked him forward by his war braids as his arm retracted. Siarl pitched forward with a scream, and Hafgan would have impaled him if the other men hadn’t coordinated their attacks. Another deep cut across his shoulder blade.
Siarl pushed himself to his feet, a great grimace on his face, one hand pressed over one of his eye sockets. In the dim light, Hafgan could see liquid running from under his hand. Maybe tears, maybe the humour of his eyeball.
“You three are in my way. Back!” Siarl growled, gripping his spear, his eye clenched shut and pulling his face into a dangerous snarl. His cronies backed off and Siarl rushed forward with a great warcry.
Rage had finally overtaken the lithe, gray warrior. Rather than lose himself, however, he struck with a deadly strength. Hafgan, his own strength flagging from blood loss and his injured leg less and less able to bear his weight, could barely keep the former war leader from landing a blow. He blocked two-handed now, less able to dodge with his wounds. Siarl smashed Hafgan’s fingers against his spear, and Hafgan heard a sharp snap as a bone shatterd. He managed to retain his grip through the pain, though just barely.
His hedwicchen was failing him. The number of injuries were forcing him from the center.
More shapes became visible nearby, vague even in his Wasmer vision. More enemies? His budredda? Had the Rostanians finally bothered to investigate the sounds of battle? Not much help there, as they’d likely start killing indiscriminately.
He managed another block and a weak riposte. Just as he swung his spear at Siarl’s legs, he was jostled from behind and stumbled. He began struggling to his feet, awaiting a blow from Siarl. But, the gray warrior’s gaze was fixed at a spot behind Hafgan, his one remaining eye wide with confusion. Hafgan had started to turn his head when he was driven forward into the dirt again, a heavy weight bearing him to the rough ground and further tearing open his lacerated back.
His spear was lost somewhere in the darkness.
Hedwicchen broken, desperation and training fueled his body to react. Hafgan thrust backward, sharply, with one elbow, allowing the momentum to carry him around. The elbow contacted with something hard, and he spun unevenly to his feet, breathing heavily. His assailant stumbled backward only briefly, though, and then lunged forward with a cry that cut through Hafgan’s pain and made him shiver to his core with fear.
The sound was pure malice.
Training alone kept Hafgan fighting. The white-bodied attacker threw himself at Hafgan, but Hafgan managed to grab an arm and twist as the form hurdled by him. The sound of a bone breaking was cut off by another great scream—pain, rage, and hate filling the air like a noxious, sinister fog.
He—it—was humanoid without a doubt, but pale of skin, and its eyes were nearly completely white. It was thin, thinner than Hafgan would have thought from the force that had slammed him to the ground, but lithe with muscles and sinew. Its mouth was wide open now, and it was baring its teeth like a wolf intent on its prey. Despite the arm that dangled awkwardly at its side, the creature seemed unaffected by the pain. Its bare, hairless chest was smeared with Hafgan’s own blood, a grisly warpaint.
A quick glance at Siarl saw him on the ground, struggling mightily against two of these creatures. A third lay bleeding from a ghastly stomach wound nearby, but it was crawling toward the melee.
Hafgan’s own opponent suddenly sprinted forward, moving far more quickly than Hafgan would have expected. The thing swung its broken arm like a club, catching Hafgan in the side of the head. It bore him to the ground, smacking his temple against a root. Hafgan strained against it, his wrist across the thing’s neck as it gnashed its teeth at him, spittle splattering all over Hafgan’s face.
His strength was fading, blood soaking the already damp dirt behind him. And his leg was stiffening; every time his attacker knocked a knee against it, he saw colorful stars burst in his vision.
The thing snapped at his neck, and he could feel its breath on his skin, its teeth brushing the stubble of his facial hair.
And suddenly, abruptly, Hafgan was straining against nothing. Looking up, he could see the stars, and a sliver of the blue Glasas, staring down at him from a gap in the trees. A black shape covered the scant light of the sky, and Hafgan braced himself for another attack as the figure stretched for him.
Paston reached down and took Hafgan’s wrist, pulling him to his feet.
---
“Lieutenant. You look like Pandemonium,” Paston said, coughing and wiping blood off of his own face. Next to him was Enric, his hairless head wreathed in drying blood, and Osian, whose small figure appeared surprisingly clean and whole. Several more of his budredda were nearby, and two were still driving their spears into the thing that had attacked Hafgan.
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