The Old Warrior

by Dale Broda, Jr

fight he had seen the arrow heads the coward was using. If he jerked it out, it would tear a bigger hole and he’d be bleeding worse than he was. The pain was something he would simply block out. Like he was doing with his other, more serious wounds.

  He grabbed the nightmare by her little shoulders and shook her till her sky blue eyes were clear and plainly focused on his own.

  “I am not saving you so you can become… like me.” His voice was rough. He was thirsty. But the old warrior had been thirsty before. He would endure for now. He would do this as he had planned and then, only then, would he let the effects wash him away.

  The nightmare nodded. Her sky blue eyes were filling with knowledge. What he wouldn’t give to take that away. To make her not see these things and to make sure she would not follow this path. He dropped to his knees and let her clamber up onto his shoulders again.

  This time, she did not let out so much as a peep as her skin came into contact with that cold, hard armor that covered his left shoulder. In the beginning of this battle, he had been armored much better. Sadly, some of his prized pieces were gone.

  Cut off. Cut through. Torn away. Burned away. However they were taken from him over the night, in this battle that was not supposed to be, they were gone now. Forever. Some scavenger would find them, melt them down and they would go on to become new armor. A young warrior’s armor he hoped.

  He smiled at that. He liked that thought.

  Looking around again, listening, trying to smell the wind, the old warrior oriented himself and began to run. Not his normal run. No, he was too weak for that. This gap footed, knees bent, strange looking shuffle of a run would cover as much ground while at the same time allow him to shift his weight away from his many injuries.

  He had learned it in the hills when he had been a young man being trained by a particularly mean, grizzled old bastard. How he had scoffed at the old bastard when he had shown him this running technique. Until the old bastard had knocked him about the head with a club and then challenged him to a race.

  What a young fool he had been. The old warrior, young then, had taken the lead around the hill and held it for a long while, then he began to wear down. Much to his chagrin, the old bastard, a man triple his age at least, had caught up to him, spit some chew on him and then moved on ahead and slowly disappeared into the horizon.

  The old warrior smiled at that memory now as he used that run down alleys and across streets. No matter what came before him, be it piles of bodies or jumbles of buildings, he was able to keep pace up and over or around the debris.

  Such fools the young could be. Himself included, upon a time. He had learned that from the old bastard. And while he knew the nightmare would not learn this run from him, he wondered if she noticed the strange way she moved on his shoulders. He glanced up. Sky blue eyes looked down into his. Strangely calm and drinking in everything.

  He looked ahead quickly. Something in that look had been too knowing. Too much for one so young. He was about to puzzle on that more when the old warrior remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

  Not thinking on such things.

  No, he had a bit to go, and so far they had been lucky. No need to lose what little he could control by thinking on things that had not mattered. Like the old bastard for one. That thought shouldn’t have happened. Maybe it was simply a sign of his condition? He could–

  –the old warrior nearly tumbled. When he had been thinking and letting his mind wander, he had not been reacting. So he had misjudged a step and now, while still running, was wavering and had to pinwheel his arms to keep his balance.

  When he had regained it, he got back in step with his run and kept his mind free. The battle was further away with every step. He only saw peasants now and again. The signs of current destruction where everywhere but he could smell the trees through the rank odors of the city.

  There! He passed a half standing building and beyond it was nothing but green and the forest itself. He kept his gait the same but he felt a bit of relief. He had done it.

  Partially.

  Now to make it to the hidden cove he knew would be there. To make it past…those.

  The old warrior came to a halt as the leathery skinned creature rose up before him. A typical carnage rat, it stood nearly as tall as himself, its eyes a deep black, its nose quivering as it took in his scent. He stepped towards it, holding his swords before him.

  “What…” The nightmare began.

  “Shhh!” His voice was rougher than before. Not out of breath in a normal way, running out of breath and time in a new way. “A carnage rat. Like ghouls. Like vampires. Like so many other things that show up at a place of blood and death and ripe plunder.” Unlike the others, this one preferred dead meat.

  Vampires and ghouls, while very weak, would try for weak living prey if they had numbers. The old warrior had never heard of a carnage rat going after anything that was still alive. And true to its nature, the rat dropped back to all fours and shuffled by him.

  A quick look around showed him the rest of the pack. He saw the tall grass moving in more than a dozen places. A standard pack then. Still… they had never attacked a living human as far as he knew. Neither did these. He stayed on guard. There was always a first time after all. He kept moving slowly through them and a few hissed at him but that was all.

  Why should they try for living food that could fight back when they could smell food aplenty not far from them? Freshly dead. Easy to chew. Once the pack had begun filtering into the city, the old warrior started his run again.

  He wondered if there would be others he’d pass. Rats, vampires and ghouls were only a very few of the creatures that showed up at a battle. Sometimes, a battle was joined by giants or even dragons. While dragons where not too large and usually not very dangerous, they could be when they flocked together to try and pick off free meat.

  The old warrior had seen most creatures at one time or other. When giants or dragons or centaurs showed up, both sides stopped fighting to attack the new foe. Once the creatures had been killed or driven off, there would be an uneasy rest. A sharing of food and drink. Then the battle would resume. Unless during that respite, one side or the other surrendered.

  The old warrior had been on both sides of that coin. One battle, many years ago, had gone very badly. He was looking to be slaughtered with the remaining men around him when suddenly, out of the dark sky, a red dragon flock had dropped onto his opponents.

  Many died in those few seconds it took for everyone to mobilize and change tactics and turn off the man vs man mode of the warrior brain into man vs beast.

  In the end, they had killed every last dragon. After a bit of a cheer, the meal and drink followed. This had saved the old warrior and the remaining men he fought beside. They were outmanned four to one and sure to lose. So the defeat was negotiated and the battle was lost.

  Only a fool thought he could win every battle. And yet, to think of losing would stop most from fighting.

  Later he had joined up in a bigger battle in a different land with men from both sides of that previous battle so far away. A paid mercenary went where the work was. While he did not think much of taking money for killing, he was a warrior after all and had no time for another life choice.

  Others he knew over the years had no such stomach for it.

  Some became blacksmiths. Some became teachers. Yet others lost themselves to drink and drug. He had known so many over the years. So many.

  But when no real kings existed and the land boundaries were in a constant state of war and land grabbing, there was work aplenty to be had.

  The old warrior froze.

  He had let his mind wander again. This was not something he would have let happen before. Even last night when he had been fresh and unwounded and fully alive, he would not have lost his warrior’s glamour. Some called it a stupor, others a daze, he liked the term glamour better. Because to him, it was always so much better when he was lost in that state of unthinking and ever
ything blazed and gleamed and shown with colors and sounds and sights unseen by his normal thinking brain.

  Despite that, here he was, losing himself again. Lost to memories of things long ago. He looked up once more at the nightmare’s sky blue eyes. She was looking around. Looking from the forest back to what had been her city. Then she met his eyes.

  Her eyes were too deep for a child’s now that he looked into them. Too much there for a child. Too knowing. Was the child he thought of as a nightmare a real nightmare? One of those countless battle field beasts that showed up over the years in some form or other to drag men away to their deaths? These were more supernatural in nature. Nothing like the dragons of ghouls he had so often seen. He had heard the tales but obviously, he had never run into such a being.

  To run into such a being was death. Utterly and completely and there was no escape so no one knew for sure what these creatures were. If in fact, they even existed. He thought they did. The old warrior had heard too many tales to think otherwise. Even if it was a rumor of a rumor or a brother’s sister’s friend’s uncle’s telling of what he had heard.

  She blinked.

  He blinked.

  Should he kill her now? Was she one of those mystical beings? Was he being lead to his place of death? She looked away suddenly, he could feel a bit of a tremor run through her legs. His eyes snapped to the tree she was looking