The Legend of Brigaard

by Horace Armstrong

  ‘Well so be it. You will get a woman from us, on condition that you treat her properly and she comes to no harm.’

  ‘She will be wed to me as a third wife. She will live in my tent and be a Queen of the people.’

  ‘My Lord -’

  ‘Did you not hear me the last time Boday. This is your final warning; by God, I will whip you myself.’

  Bamamm was smiling now as the worst of the tension dissipated. By God, he is a genius he thought.

  ‘I have already seen the woman I want,’ Kroos said as if negotiating for ware from the market. He did not know it, but apart from Ceriuz, all the Pitsmen were genuinely affronted, and in any other context, he would have been killed. Not that they were opposed to such negotiations, but their inherent sense of superiority to the Island race, who they all thought was of inferior stock, made it hard for them to stomach the request. Oh, there had been rumors of Untas raiding mainland Villages and making away with Pits women before; but to make such a request, of the King of all people, was indeed an insult that deserved a horrific death.

  ‘Oh,’ Jaks said. ‘And who might this be?’ Kroos grinned wolfishly and all Pitsmen in the room, bar Ceriuz, itched to see his blood flow down their swords and make puddles on the floor.

  ‘The Servant. The one with the long blonde hair and how did you describe her…’ he said turning to Bamamm. ‘Wide twin begetting hips,’ his accomplice finished without missing a beat.

  For a minute Jaks seriously considered damning the deal and setting on Kroos himself. Ceriuz, who knew Jaks better than most tensed as the king contemplated on decisions that would have enormous ramifications for all his people.

  ‘Zarah?’ He said softly as if talking to himself. Daarrk glanced at Murchee, who had turned white as a sheet and was clenching his hilt so hard, his knuckles turned snow-white. Zarah was his companion and all, but the King knew it. Every night the girl would slip into his tent only to re-emerge before dawn the next. Boday was also aware of the fact, and his shrewd mind worked out multiple possibilities of how the night might end.

  ‘She is yours,’ Jaks said. Murchee made a soft moan that escaped nobody but the King. Now he had made his decision his mind had turned to more important things; indeed he was glad that the Unta had chosen a mere servant girl, an orphan no less…she would not be missed.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, his voice tired, ‘I want everybody to get some rest, we are in for a long day tomorrow. Daarrk,’ he turned to his brother. ‘Arrange the treasure be taken to the Untas on a Wagon, and arrange the…the wench as well. Make sure it is all done in secrecy.’ He turned to Kroos. ‘Let this be the last time you make such a request.’ Kroos nodded and bowed obsequiously. ‘Your lord,’ he said and wheeled on his heels.

  Ceriuz caught them as they were mounting their ubiquitous horses; small, sturdy creatures that could only be found on their Islands.

  ‘Kroos,’ he said. The short man wheeled and faced Ceriuz.

  ‘Look,’ Bammaam said with a giggle, ‘It’s the sorcerer.’

  ‘What do you want old man?’ Kroos asked.

  ‘You will not remember me. You were but a child when I spent a year with your people.’

  ‘I know you not, but I know of you. The Pits magician who spent time in our forests, studying wild beasts and gathering rare plants…you were especially interested in the rare red snouted Dragons.’

  Ceriuz nodded.

  ‘I saw but only a handful.’ Kroos shrugged and petted his impatient mare. ‘I have lived on the Island all my life, and I have seen only a few myself, but I know you are not here to exchange anecdotes on red dragons.’

  ‘Why Kroos?’

  ‘The woman?’

  His eyes narrowed. Ceriuz didn’t say anything…there was no need.

  ‘You are sworn to celibacy; explaining why I require a woman to you is like explaining to a fish why it needs shelter in a thunderstorm.’

  ‘Not quite. I was not always celibate, and I have had my fair share of women.’

  Kroos’ eyes narrowed. He was but a mere boy when Ceriuz, the first foreigner ever, was granted permission to stay on the Unta Islands, study their people and customs; their languages, their traditions; their flora and fauna…in exchange for a vast myriad of magical services; ranging from weather tampering to fertility rites. He heard that the powers of the Sorcerer made those of their local Shamans pale in comparison. He was one to be watched.

  The camp was slumbering; over a thousand soldiers weary from their exertions and anxious for the battle tomorrow were trying to get some rest under the dark starry skies. A half moon, playing hide and seek with cumulus clouds, was the only illumination as most of the campfires were already doused.

  ‘I am curious,’ Kroos said, finally, ‘and the Pits women are comely in a way that our maidens can never be. They are tall and fair-haired and pale and buxom, and I need a new wife to bring excitement and new-borns into my household.’

  Ceriuz regarded him pointedly. ‘All you needed to have done was to make a few raids of the coastal towns. Why put our King in such a position as to lose face.’

  Bamamm made an impatient gesture, and Kroos put up his hands, quick to stop any impertinent statements from his second in charge. ‘I saw the maiden,’ he said softly, looking up at the magician, ‘and I desired her. I made a request, and it was granted…make no more of it than it is Sorcerer.’

  Ceriuz sighed. Impetuosity was a trait that was rare in the Untas. They were a simple people, who lived frugally in simple communes, but they did nothing lightly, Kroos was lying to him. This “request” had been thought of weeks before, even months.

  He was unlike his father, this strange wiry man, Ceriuz thought. His father had little ambition of conquest; content to spend his days on the Island hunting wild game and governing his people; occasionally hiring his men out for mercenary work. There was something different about this one - could he have ambitions beyond the Islands? Even as the thought came to his head, Ceriuz realized with a start that he was right.

  He shuddered, he had seen the Untas in battle; they rode as if they had been born on horseback and even the worst of their marksmen could hit a tiny acorn from a hundred yards with their arrows. Their frame was small and wiry, but they were incredibly strong and ferocious. If they were unleashed on the Pits, they would make the war with the Osterlays seem like market women squabbling over trade.

  ‘Do you read minds Sorcerer?’ Kroos had a ghost of a smile on his face. He was an intuitive man and had guessed that the old Wizard had been able to see through his eyes, to the burning ambitions that kept him up every night. Never-mind, he thought, even a wizard could not stop events now, the ball had been set rolling, and things would never be the same.

  Ceriuz smiled. ‘I am a sorcerer,’ he said, ‘Not a miracle worker - so I cannot read minds.’

  Kroos studied him for a minute, then turned on his heels, and with the agility of a monkey mounted his horse. Bamamm did the same.

  ‘It is a good thing that you cannot read minds old one…but curious…curious that one who is so powerful cannot do that one simple thing.’ With a sharp ululation that pierced the night air, he pitched his mount and galloped away, closely followed by his acolyte, through the slumbering camp.

  Chapter 8

  ‘The scout is here.’

  The King of the Osterlays rolled out of his bed instantly alert. He had not had any sleep in anticipation of the coming battle. A servant brought warm water and soap in a basin, which was used to bathe his face. He glanced in the mirror and his brows furrowed at how old he looked. Where was the young man that had taken over from his father 17 years (by the seven gods of the Undergrounds was it that long) ago? He was still handsome, but for the first time, he noticed there was more Grey than black in his locks. Even on a day of battle, he called a servant to shave him, and although almost shaking in anticipation of the day’s battle, he forced himself to go through his usual ritual. After shaving, he
had a meagre breakfast of cheese, cold meats and bread with mulled wine. Then he got into a warm bath and luxuriated in the expert gentle caress of his favorite slave: a slim dark haired Jervakian beauty, with wide hips and exotic slanted eyes peculiar to their people. He dressed in battle gear; culminating in chain mail, which three servants placed on him with practiced expertise. Finally, he was handed his sword; a beautiful, deadly piece crafted by the best blacksmith in the land. He inserted the weapon in a handsome, finely decorated scabbard and stepped outside. Like most days destined for horror, it was looking to be a beautiful one. The sun was not yet out but the songs of the birds portended of a glorious sunny day - what better day for a war in which thousands would die, and many more would be injured - he mused a ghost of a smile on his face.

  ‘Sire,’ a burly middle-aged man, dressed in full Osterley military regalia said, bowing deeply. ‘The dispatcher.’

  A young, thin red-haired youth stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Speak freely.’

  ‘The Pitsmen army is on the move; they will be here in a few hours.’

  ‘How many?’ The query was spat out by the burly man. His name was Akerz, and he was a General in the Osterlays King’s army.

  ‘Maybe just over 2000; only a handful of calvary.’

  ‘Where did you see them?’ Fistum asked. He was a giant of a man even by Osterlays standards - another general.

  ‘They passed through a narrow valley near where I camped for the night. They saw me on the cliff-face, but their arrows fell short.’

  ‘You have done well,’ Kellatarm, King of the Osterlays said. The boy blushed as red as his hair. ‘Go now and rouse the camp. We will prepare an adequate welcome for our Pits scum,’ he spat. To his Generals: ‘The moment has come. Prepare your men - you,’ he said, turning to an underling, ‘prepare my horse.’

  The Osterlays were camped at the head of a rolling hill. They were over 5,000 strong; all battle-hardened men, most nursing some sort of injury from their most recent campaign. Word of the coming enemy filtered round their camp and the men roused themselves, eager for one final battle. Camp commandants, baying loudly in voices made hoarse by overuse, went round kicking rumps of those slow to act and a loud battle horn sounded to announce the urgency of the situation.

  30 Minutes later, the great Osterley army was gathered on the edge of the camp, waiting to set out to battle. The Noble Men, who commanded sections of the army rode around on steads, doing a last minute check - there was the usually charged atmosphere before any battle. Finally, the King showed up in full armor, accompanied by Lord Akerz of Marnx, himself resplendent in battle gear. As soon as he was sighted the men let out a spontaneous cheer and a chant of “Long reign our King” broke out.

  The King smiled broadly. He rode his horse to the center of his army, and they grew quiet in anticipation. ‘My great army,’ He said. ‘The day has finally come.’ A loud cheer broke out which died when the King raised his hand.

  ‘I see the brave men of Marnx with their Tulip banner. The indefatigable hordes of Bilux with their Bear; the scourge of the Coastal Pits - the Greens with their Viper banner…’ One after the other, he named the different factions that had been raised by his loyal nobles, from their regions - careful not to forget any to avoid any slight. ‘We are the pride of the Osterlays; a noble people ordained by God to rule all of the lands.’ He paused and surveyed the Army with slate grey eyes. ‘Slowly but surely, we have trudged through Pitsland, conquering Village, homesteads, and towns, until we have arrived at this crucial juncture…one final battle which will determine whether we march into the accursed Pits capital as victors; conquerors, or we turn tail and flee back like cowardly curs.’

  The King's words were not mere rhetoric. He realized how high the stakes were. Already the first snow had fallen days ago signalling the start of winter, a season that was notoriously harsh in this region of the Pits. Food supply had also fallen dangerously short, reinforcement was still several days away, and the morale in the army was at a dangerously low ebb. If they lost, they would have to go back home; all the Villages and Towns conquered were nothing if they could not get the main prize. No, he thought, it was now or never.

  ‘The accursed Pits come. The scum of the Earth; a mistake of creation by the gods and a people whose rightful place it is to serve as slave and servants to the even the lowliest of Osterley's.’

  A massive cheer like the clap of thunder permeated the air.

  ‘We are the mighty Osterlays, the Gods own people…let every man fight to the death; if you fall let it not be before you have taken five Pits sons of dogs; fight with everything you have, do not give a quarter, do not concede an inch of territory, let your swords, spears, and shields be stained with fetid Pitsmen blood. The Gods are with you. To battle, to Victory!’

  A loud cheer broke out as the men reacted to the clarion call with vigor. Akerz looked on proudly; he might not be the handiest with a sword, but their King knew how to set men’s hearts on fire with flowery language. This would not be a tactical fight; it wouldn’t be won by clever strategy or daring gambit; it would be a vicious, close-quartered man to man combat and the fact that they outnumbered their enemy would be negated by the desperation of the Pitsmen, who were ferocious fighters.

  The King leaned in and said to his nobles; ‘It’s up to you now. Onward to battle.’

  Finally, the Osterley army came into view, and it was a sight that was genuinely terrifying; even to the bravest of the Pitsmen.

  Jaks rode at the head of the army with his two most trusted nobles; Boday and Murchees and his brother Daarrk.

  ‘We stay here!’ He bayed and the whole army, as one halted. They were on horseback, the four Pits commander and a cold breeze made all shiver. The Osterley army was on the top of a gentle hill, and they stretched as far as the eye could see on either side.

  ‘Looks like they are 5000 strong,’ Murchee grunted, awed despite himself.

  ‘5000 men to die today then,’ Daarrk growled.

  ‘Get me a rider,’ Jaks said softly, eyes narrowed.

  Soon a young boy, barely 16 galloped to the King’s side. ‘A message for the King of the Osterlays - if he is still not ensconced safely in his tent that is.’ Daarrk giggled, and the two other nobles smiled wryly. It was common knowledge that the Osterley King was an inbred coward that rarely led in battle.

  ‘Tell him that we give him one last chance to surrender. If he doesn’t the plains will be smeared with Osterley blood and Ravens will feast on the innards and eyeballs of his men for days to come - no doubt the poor birds will later die of food poisoning.’ The boy nodded; he raised a white flag and signalled frantically. A white flag appeared from the other side; which meant it was safe to approach. He rode off, covering the ground between the two armies rapidly. Soon he was on the Osterley side, and the mass of men moved apart to let him ride through to the King.

  ‘I don’t know why we don’t plough into them. We all know what the Osterley's answer will be,’ Said Daarrk. They stood at the head of the army on horse-back in full battle-gear as they gazed at the mass of humanity that lined the horizon. Behind them, the Pits army, comprised of the Kings Calvary, resplendent in purple and carrying the King’s Banner, Bodays Lowlanders in their ubiquitous brown uniform, Murchees unit, small but fierce infantrymen from his stronghold Murtriava and the main army, drawn from all Pitsmen far and wide braced for battle. All of a sudden a gap formed in the Osterley army; Jak’s eyes narrowed, and his horse jerked nervously, as a horseman rode through the gap.

  ‘Blood of the goddess Murtriava,’ cursed Murchee. It was a man in Osterley, and he held something in his hands, which he hurled towards the Pits nobility. The object rolled down the uneven grassy slope resting a few hundred yards from the line of the Pitsmen army.

  ‘See what it is,’ Daarrk barked at one of the calvary who, promptly galloped to the object. He dismounted, picked it up and rode back until he was by the Pits King and his comm
ander. Jaks bristled, and the others cursed in outrage as they gazed at the decapitated head of the scout, held up by his long brown hair. His eyes were opened in the listless soulless manner of the dead and blood dripped from his neck to the green grass.

  ‘Who was he?’ Jaks said, his lips scarcely moving and face red with fury.

  ‘A young lad from the capital sire,’ the calvary man said. ‘He only joined a few months ago; he had high hopes of glory.’

  Jaks nodded, almost trembling with rage and anger. ‘Sound the horns,’ he said to no one in particular. The battle horn carried to the King of the Osterley who smirked. Killing a scout was underhanded and rare, but it was a symbolic gesture to usher in what was sure to be a bloody day. He had done it himself, amid his whooping and cheering men.

  ‘Here they come,’ sire one of his noble men said, mounted on a handsome snow-white stead.

  ‘Indeed.’

  A cadre of mounted men appeared and surrounded him, leading him through a mass of men who parted as he went to the rear of his army. His chief nobleman would direct the fight - he would watch from a safe distance.

  The Pits army marched up the gentle slope in cadence to a booming drum. In the vanguard where Murchees’ men, the king, and his noblemen, his guard and a mass of the main army. They moved inexorably to their enemy, not in haste, but with the determined march of well-drilled military men. Each soldier carried a shield made of wood painted, blue, purple or red depending on their unit; a spear which was tilted towards the enemy and a short sword for the inevitable closed quarter fighting that would come. Each knew death was never closer to them; and they prayed for either a victory or a grand entry to the afterlife, only after sending scores of enemies the other way first.

  On the other side, General Akerz’s green eyes surveyed the scene. ‘By God, they are well drilled,’ he said softly.

  ‘Aye - but that won’t help them,’ said Jamelot, a nobleman from the Osterley capital resplendent in his battle gear.