by Matt Rogers
Chapter 4: Two Become Three
The Siege (Blight’s Encampment)
Savage and Deadaim were making their way to the forward observation post, not to view the carnage they’d wrought but to speak with another of their kind; the mercenary barbarian, Brutus.
“Hey, Brutus, how’s it going?”
The blond man was, if not the largest, definitely in the competition for biggest Human alive. His arms rippled with muscles, his chest broad as a bear and the scars he wore attested to survival skills.
“Hey, Sergeant. I’m pretty good but the front lines have seen better days.”
Savage glanced to where Brutus indicated and shuddered at the sight. The front lines in Prince Blight’s army were, at the same time, both hurling rocks and getting splattered by them. Everything was chaos and the Sergeant, while not exactly a fan of the monstrous army, wasn’t pleased he was ordered to do something he knew would result in so much carnage.
“Yeah, pretty much a rout, I’d say” Savage remarked.
“Looks like a bug-smashing competition” Deadaim deadpanned.
Savage couldn’t argue because it did resemble a cockroach stomping contest.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” the barbarian asked.
Savage thought it over for a second.
“Long enough for the Prince to feel we tried to penetrate their defenses. How many have we lost so far?”
Brutus looked down to the ground where he’d been making a tally of the losses using a stick to scratch lines every time one of the Prince’s soldier’s was felled by falling rubble.
“It appears Goliath is getting better with his aim. We’ve got ten Ogres down, seventeen Orcs and I think four Trolls. But I can’t be positive about their number.”
“Why not?”
“Because they look squishy when standing upright. For all I know the mangled mess of Troll-waste are actually nap-takers.”
Savage decided the number of losses was acceptable.
“Deadaim, head on back and inform the Trolls to tell the Orcs to stop supplying the Ogres with rocks.”
Deadaim nodded his head and left.
Savage sat down with the barbarian, took out some dried meat and passed it over to the hulk of a warrior.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat in silence eating their venison, comfortable in the knowledge they were safe in the other’s company, proving time really was the great healer because when they’d first met it had been at swords’ lengths.
They’d been in the employ of differing monarchs in the territories known as the Wild Lands; an area with borders constantly updated after one ruler defeated another in battle. As was normally the case when a ruler found a gifted warrior they kept the soldier close at hand. In the cases of Savage and Brutus they found themselves as bodyguards for two princes vying to kill the other. The princes were both born from the same father who, in his infinite wisdom, forgot to assign an heir. The two went to war, found themselves facing off on the battlefield which, of course, led Savage and Brutus to pull their swords and begin dancing to Death’s tune. In both cases, the princes’ and the mercenaries’, no one held the upper hand. The fighting lasted for hours and should ‘ve ended in a draw but the hatred of the royals was such they kept going long past the time their bodies could cope. The end to the princes’ reign came quickly and suddenly with both killing the other by thrusting swords through defenses no longer capable of thwarting attack. It left Savage and Brutus in a state of sudden flux for neither was enrolled in an army; they were hired hands employed to do a job then move on to fight for different lieges who also felt they had what it took to lord over all. The question had been broached first by Savage.
“You want to stop this nonsense?”
“Yep, my feet are killing me.”
So the two left the battlefield and a friendship formed.
“How was your prince?”
“An imbecile. What about yours?”
“A moron.”
They wandered far and wide, signing on and off with various kings, barons, princes and dukes according to who was likelier to win. The decision of choosing probable victor over gold had two positive effects. First, it kept them alive. Second, since they were always on the winning side their reputations grew to the point where they themselves dictated outcomes. As they won they caught the eye of other mercenaries who also liked the idea of winning. After a while the competing rulers on the opposing sides were bidding against each other for their services. It was no longer decided according to possible victor, it came down to money. Whichever side Savage and Brutus joined would immediately become besieged with other mercenaries willing to throw their hat in the ring because earning pay was slightly more enjoyable if one had the knowledge they’d be able to spend their wages after the fighting was over.
For a while they controlled a mercenary army of their own. It was large, effective and a troublesome venture to say the least. Mercenaries were, by nature, a combative breed of individuals. While in conquest they could be counted on to do their jobs and follow orders admirably. When the fighting halted was when the trouble began. Insults turned to duels and both Savage and Brutus found themselves acting as judge and jury so many times they gave up the idea of leading many. They went back to acting as a pair, siding with one ruler over another and waiting as everyone wised up and joined their side instead of the other. They were the difference makers; the ones needed to prove a ruler’s might. They probably would’ve kept at their dual partnership if not for one small, seemingly insignificant struggle which arose during a strange campaign.
It was the first time they’d signed on to fight for Prince Blight. They didn’t particularly like the royal for his reputation of ravishing the countryside was common knowledge but he held the coin and the upper hand so they did what intelligent mercenaries did and took his gold. They went to war and devastated the upstart Baron’s army who dared to challenge the power of Blight. As they were taking the Baron’s castle a lone figure was seen escaping by horse and the Prince’s attention was drawn.
“Kill him and I will reward you handsomely.”
Savage and Brutus took off with ten men in tow. They raced across the desert and finally trapped him atop a sand dune. They were below him, huddled behind a small outcrop of boulders when the situation took a sudden turn.
“Okay, we’ve got him trapped.”
“Yep.”
“Someone should poke their head out to see exactly where he is.”
“Yep.”
“You want to do it?”
“Nope.”
The twelve men, all mercenaries of many years had not become so by poking their heads out where danger resided so they drew straws and the loser given the opportunity.
“Okay, I see…”
Thunk!
He never finished because he sported a wooden shaft through his right eye where an arrow penetrated.
“Okay, I guess we need to draw straws a second time.”
“Yep.”
The loser, once again, chanced a peek.
Thunk!
And came away with a wooden shaft embedded in his left eye-socket.
“All right, peeking seems to be a bad option. Anybody got another idea?”
They decided a full out attack would be the surest way to kill a lone archer sitting on a sand dune in the middle of the desert so they split into two groups, Savage lead four and Brutus did the same.
“On three! One… Two… Three!”
They exploded out from behind the boulder, ten men with over a hundred years of military campaigning under their belt. It should’ve been an easy victory. Surely a lone man with bow could not penetrate the defenses of mercenaries who’d won so many battles they no longer cared to keep count?
“Oh my God!”
“Holy…!”
They were again huddled behind the boulders minus four who had been there before.
“How can
anyone shoot like that?”
“Did he miss? Seriously, did he miss a single time?”
They were down to six and the situation became increasingly hazardous. They needed a plan, one which would provide them the chance to earn the Prince’s reward.
“Okay, what if one of us goes out there and runs around till he wastes his arrows? When he’s depleted his ammunition the others can walk up and take his head.”
Everyone agreed it was a risky but solid plan of attack.
“All right. Any volunteers?”
When nary a hand was raised the straws came out.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”
“You thought it was before you lost.”
The man agreed it was so, bundled himself in the extra armor of the two comrades who had done deadly peeking service and sprinted out from behind the boulders to draw the archer’s eye.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Two steps? He only made two steps?”
They were down to five and running out of ideas. Savage looked around and saw a possible solution.
“Look, we’ve got three bodies within reach. What if three of us pick them up, hold them as shields and move forward as the two behind use their bows to pin that guy down?”
The plan held promise because even an archer of infinite talent was restrained by the tools he employed. An arrow could, indeed, penetrate through a body but it could not also penetrate leather armor worn by one holding the body in front of him. They all agreed it was a gruesome idea but one filled with promise.
“Okay, who wants a body?”
When no hand was raised the straws were again drawn, finding Savage and Brutus waiting with baited breath as the last three mercenaries picked up three former colleagues and held them in front as they moved toward the archer on the hill.
“I cannot believe they keep falling for the straw trick.”
“They do seem to be rather gullible.”
The straws were, of course, altered so Savage and Brutus knew which ones were longer.
They waited for a while as the men advanced. When both felt the time was right and the archer occupied, they raised their bows, notched their arrows and stood to fire over the boulders. They rapidly ducked back down.
“Did I just see that?”
“Did you see him shoot three arrows straight up and then put three more in every body-shield?”
“Yep.”
“Then you saw what I saw and I think we have a problem.”
They decided against straw-drawing since both knew it to be rigged, could not come up with a better solution and settled on rolling the dice with both glancing at the same time.
“You ready?”
“Not really.”
“All right, on three. One… Two… Three!”
They both looked over the boulders and returned as quickly as they could.
“Okay, this guy in wickedly good.”
What they had seen was two-fold; one negative, one positive.
The negative reinforced their opinion the man with bow was something altogether unique. When they spied over the rocks they saw their former mercenaries, all of them, laying on the ground sporting arrows. What the archer had done should not have been possible. Both Savage and Brutus were experts themselves but what the other had achieved neither could believe. When he unleashed three arrows skyward he’d sent them on a preplanned trajectory, then proceeded to pelt the advancing men with more shafts. The men held their body-shields in front because to drop them meant death by piercing flint. As they withstood the bombardment all somewhat forgot the three previously unleashed projectiles, thus ending dead; their necks impaled by arrows descending from the above.
The positive, itself, held both good and bad aspects.
“He’s only got one arrow left.”
“Yep.”
What they had seen with their eyes were ten dead mercenaries who became so by the lone silhouette standing upon a sand dune with one arrow notched and an empty satchel on his back.
“All right, what do we do now?”
“Well, we’re not drawing straws, I’ll tell you that.”
They agreed to let fate dictate the terms and rushed the man at the same time. They both reached the top of the hill for the man never fired, he stood still with bow taut and arrow at the ready.
“Um, I suppose you’re not going to surrender?” Savage asked with sword drawn.
“Nope” the man replied.
“Okay then.”
As Savage and Brutus stalked both waited for sudden death when the man decided whom he’d like to join in the afterlife. It was evident the man preferred the bow while both mercenaries the sword. It was also apparent after unleashing the arrow he’d be cut down the next instant. It was the resolve to do so which resonated with Savage.
“Okay, hold up. This is stupid. We’re mercenaries, the dead guys are mercenaries and I’m assuming you’re a mercenary yourself?” he asked.
The man indicated he was by nodding his head.
“All righty then. Why don’t we just join forces and make a lot of money together?”
And it was then the trifecta was born. They easily got away with their scheme because the Prince, like most monarchs, had absolutely no idea the identities of the mercenaries employed. The archer traded his garb with a deceased, they trussed the poor soul on the back of a horse and went to claim their reward for killing a fleeing opponent.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
His name, of course, was Deadaim and he was at that moment making his way to issues orders telling Trolls to tell Orcs to quit supplying Ogres with the means of their own demise. As he was making his way through the encampment a figure caught his attention.
In every army there were competing interests. The mercenary who entered the tent of Prince Blight was one such individual. His name was Slicer and he led the Elvin forces. No one knew if he took insult at subordination to Savage for the Elvin kept counsel to themselves. As Slicer entered the tent Deadaim moved with stealth and alarming curiosity to listen from outside the cloth structure. What he learned changed the entire game.