by Aaron Dennis
One warrior produced a telescope. Looking through glass for a moment, he was silent. Then, he turned to the mercenary.
“The three lookouts on the roof have not seen us, and I did not see anyone looking to the south through their windows,” the soldier answered.
“Excellent,” Scar sighed. “Taking this tower by surprise allows the Kulshedrans to continue running their supply wagons. Their horse drawn carts stop at each outpost along the Satronian border carrying goods. Therein lays the second portion of Zoltek’s attack strategy.
“With the supply wagon compromised, storming the adjacent outposts is a much easier task, especially after my suggestion of utilizing the wagons for an ambush.”
Some of the warriors glanced at each other. Their frowns and furrowed brows were indications of disbelief. Zmajanss considered themselves masters of the art of war, but then they had yet to dethrone King Gilgamesh and take Satrone for themselves.
Scar slowly climbed the sandy hill. At the top, amidst stunted shrubberies, he laid on his stomach. A beaten path through the thin chaparral rounded the tower. Two more paths curved to the east and the west. It was evident by twin tracks that supply wagons came about on a regular basis. Scar maintained his observation. No wagon was in sight, and it was too dusty to see any other tower on the black horizon. The silence was his only concern. They may yet hear our approach, he thought.
He climbed back down and addressed his group, saying, “Men, we must move slowly, lest our heavy feet draw unwanted attention.”
They nodded in understanding. Scar rounded the hill and skulked the remaining distance to the outpost. His eyes were wide, ready for any movement. The soldiers behind him grit their teeth while doing their best to remain quiet. Before long, they reached the beaten path. With backs pressed to the brown stone of the tower, they waited for Scar to mount the attack.
He approached the massive entryway at the base and peeked inside. The structure of the tower, as was similar with those of Zmajan architecture, was a four-entry crossway at the base with a staircase leading to the top. The size of the entrances also allowed the supply wagon to pull into the tower proper. From his position, Scar saw two men with bronzed skin clad in brown, leather armor.
The guards sat at a table chatting. They had no clue bloodthirsty Zmajans had arrived with slaughter on the mind. Scar turned back to his men and pointed to round the other side. He counted ten seconds after they moved. Then, he rushed inside with his great sword at the ready.
The Kulshedrans had not even the time to comprehend the situation. Scar slashed his blade, and one’s head fell from his body. The other just came to his feet, but Scar had kept the momentum of his swing going by carrying the sword overhead. With a vertical slash, he killed the second man. In less than five seconds, the base of the outpost was secured.
Scar held his left fist up. In silence, the men waited a moment. When no clamor from above resounded, Scar took the lead again. He rushed past a long table lined with lanterns, plates of dried fruit, and Kulshedran corpses, to the steps at the far end. Battle lusty Zmajanss followed behind Scar. Aware of the plan of attack, four grumbling soldiers remained at the base in the event of Kulshedran support from whatever sights unseen.
Twenty steps up from the base of the outpost was another large room similar in design only with windows in place of doorways. Coming off the steps, the Zmajans fanned out, and slew three Kulshedrans. Drunk from too much wine, the enemy gave no resistance.
Once more, Scar waited. There was no sound indicating their presence was known, and he proceeded up more steps, only with four less men to remain on the second floor. Twenty more steps up, he spilled into the third room; it was lined with rows of beds.
Caught unawares, a Kulshedran guard gasped and made to grab his spear. A Zmajan warrior chucked his javelin. It struck the guard high in the back, and he crashed to the floor with a great deal of noise. Roused by the attack, the slow waking guards tried to resist, but Scar and the soldiers made easy of work the enemy. Sleeping lions make easy prey, Scar laughed to himself.
“I’ll take the roof,” the mercenary whispered.
He walked slowly. Time was of little importance. The tower had been secured, leaving as his only concern the Kulshedrans’ gong. Aid was likely too far to pose the Zmajans any threat, but negligence was outside of Scar’s approach. Coming close to the last steps, his bald, white head poked through the floor.
“Hey?” a dozing Kulshedran asked in shock.
One made for the gong while the other swung an axe at Scar. He parried by simply pointing his blade forward. Following up with a lunge to the top step, he stabbed the guard in the midsection, leapt up to the floor, and spun with a slash across the back of the man about to ring the gong. The blow killed the enemy, but Scar left his flank open.
The remaining Kulshedran slashed at exposed skin. With a groan, Scar twisted his sword hand. The action brought his pommel against the guard’s head. Staggered from the blow, the Kulshedran was susceptible to a kick in the gut. The mercenary’s immense foot sent the man into the tower’s guardrail and over it. The enemy plummeted close to a hundred feet.
The four Zmajans at the base saw the guard hit the ground. A large puff of dust came up, but was quickly carried away by the subtle winds.
“Guess he’s done it,” one soldier chuckled.
On the roof, beneath a thin, whipping cloth for daytime shade, Scar took the rotating ballista. A bolt was already loaded. By pushing against a horizontal beam built into the framework, he pointed the giant weapon to the south where the remaining Zmajans along with General Dumar waited for the signal that the supply wagon was on its way. Then, Scar went down a floor.
“Someone gather oil and cloths,” he ordered.
While they did so, he went back to the roof and took a seat in a wicker chair. Frowning, he checked his flank. The blood was already dried, and the wound no longer ached. He scratched it. Crimson dust crumbled away revealing a new scar. Why does it heal so quickly? A moment later, a young woman handed him the supplies.
“Gratitude,” he said.
She bowed her smooth head in welcoming, but did not leave. He looked at her. The black leather was laced about her firm body in aesthetically pleasing ways. Her bosom was small, but her shapely bottom caught Scar’s eye. He smiled. Zmajans were nearly as hairless as he, but the chocolate hue of their skin was breathtaking.
“Will there be anything else?” the young woman asked.
“What is your name?”
“Kaviri.”
Her eyes were very dark green, and the swirling patterns of gray and purple graced her skin like veins on a leaf.
“Have a drink with me,” Scar suggested.
There were clay jugs of wine sitting on the long table by the guardrail. The fine clay craftsmanship—a product of Kulshedran creativity—was sublime. The jugs were triangular in design, but tall and elegant with animals etched into the sides. Kaviri took one and boldly sat in Scar’s lap. After a few sips, they munched on the dried fruits and nuts laid out on the table.
“How long before the wagon comes?” Kaviri asked.
“We probably won’t see it until tomorrow.”
“Then, we have plenty of time to rest before the next fight,” she asked.
“I believe so.”
They looked at each other. He was practically forbidden fruit to her. Romping with those under the blessing of different Gods was not usually frowned upon, unless they were enemies, but Scar was a very strange individual. His appearance was confusing to all who saw him. He did not look as though blessed by any God, and so some wondered if perhaps that was exactly the case. A man rejected by all the Gods was something to fear, but Kaviri was not easily frightened.
She stood and took a couple of paces over to the table. Scar looked the area over. The relief of a successful mission objective put him in the mood for fun.
“Maybe I should rid us of this corpse,” he chuckled.
Kaviri gave a nod of mock
resignation. They smiled then hurled the dead over the tower. The impact startled the Zmajans at the base, but they quickly resumed their own devices.
“Now, you wanted to know if I needed anything else,” Scar asked.
“Mmm, what does one such as you want?” she asked with graceful movements of her butt and belly.
“That and more.”
After a moment of dancing, she climbed his form. They gave into each other while cool winds caressed their skin.
Chapter Two- The second assault
Scar gazed over every inch of dark horizon. With his hands on the railing, he leaned his weight forward. The sun was soon to rise, and though he had not slept yet, he was not tired. Even after pleasing sweet Kaviri, I am restless. He rubbed his head in wonder.
A warm wind circulated beneath the whipping canopy. With clenching jaw, Scar took in the expansive scenery. It was little more than dissipating clouds over dusty hills; squat plants of little color grew sparsely. A subtle setting, yet it was beautiful if contradictory to the war at hand. After the moment of reverie, Scar looked at his body.
An overabundance of scars were his only means of self-identification. All he knew about himself was that a few months prior, he was set upon by a squadron of Dracos.
“Scar?” a sweet voice called. He turned to see Kaviri coming up the steps. “How does the morning fare you?”
A smile flickered over his face before he returned to gazing at the landscape. “I, I was just recollecting.”
“Yes?” she asked and embraced him from behind. Her fingers gently scratched his abdominals. “Tell Kaviri all about it.”
“I was thinking about my first memory,” he heaved. “Worshipers of Drac, the so called God of Fire, they were certainly fierce warriors. I’ll never forget those bright, orange eyes.”
“Argh, I dislike the Dracos more than the Kulshedrans!”
“Heh, yes…well, it was then I learned I was a magnificent bladesman.”
Echoes of shouts erupted into his mind. He allowed the full scenario of that strange event, his first memory, to coalesce.
****
Scar simply realized he was in existence. The first thoughts came to his mind as a jumbled mess. Then, the sound of chatter came on the wind. Whooping and hollering resounded. Frightened, he came to his feet, and whipping his head around to take in the bewildering environment, he spotted the large, burly men in kilts. They held big, heavy weapons. Behind the approaching masses were sandy expanses of brown. Mountains graced the horizon. Hills and dunes peppered the landscape.
“What’s this, then?” a towering man with freckled skin asked, pointing at Scar with his hammer.
The motley crew of barbarians scrutinized him as curiously as he did them. They were a menacing force of about fifty, and all of them had reddish hair, and burning, orange eyes.
“Where, where am I?” Scar blurted out.
“This fool doesn’t know where he is?” another chuckled. “Oi, fool, who are you?”
Scar shook his head, unable to give an answer. His eyes darted from bearded faces to axes, hammers, swords. Scar knew he was in trouble.
“I like that sword he’s got right there,” a tall man with brands from heated irons said. Scar looked over to it; the enormous blade with holes throughout stood flagrantly from the soil. “I’m takin’ it,” the branded man then grinned maliciously.
The others joined in laughter, but when the man reached for Scar’s blade, the pale individual found he’d latched his enormous, white hand around the assailant’s wrist, and pulled down to the ground while taking a knee. The action immediately broke the barbarian’s wrist, and his compatriots howled before attacking.
The first order of defense was picking up the wounded man and throwing him at the oncoming warriors. When the forefront fell over, Scar drew the strange blade from the ground, and immediately, he felt a powerful vibration coming from the weapon. A mighty shout escaped Scar’s lips. He swung with a blow so potent, it killed one man outright, and knocked over another three. Suddenly, Scar’s mind was clear. His breathing slowed, and he understood how to survive.
By constantly forcing his attackers between his flesh and the weapons their friends brandished, he was able to cut down one, or two, parry attacks then flee a moment. Though he incurred the occasional scrape or laceration, no wound was detrimental, and so he continued to cut down more men before running. Every time the enemy gave chase, they were a couple of men and breaths short. Within thirty minutes, he felled nearly the entire troop.
“Leave me alone,” Scar finally cried out to those who remained.
Orange eyes traded frightened glances. The Dracos nodded and fled, leaving only corpses and dust in their wake.
****
“Hm,” Scar purred. Kaviri’s firm grip on his shoulders brought him back to the present. Scanning the now purplish horizon, he continued saying, “That is my oldest memory. I had no idea how I got there, or what I was doing….”
The sun slowly rose over the eastern mountain range. Errant beams of red pushed over the peaks and dark clouds parted. It was a calm morning, so he returned to thought of that strange day.
“Following my first fight, I meandered aimlessly just hoping to ascertain my location, to see something familiar. Nothing was recognizable. I remember noticing the fight had happened in the middle of a beaten path, and assumed that the direction from which they came was probably not the best direction to go in search of answers, so I walked down the other end of the dusty path, and that’s when I crossed the border into Usaj.”
“And into my arms,” Kaviri stood on her toes to kiss his neck.
“It was less than a week later, oh, that’s good,” he chuckled.
She grinned knowingly. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Less than a week later,” she echoed. “Word reached the ears of Zoltek that a strange man, white as a ghost, bested a squadron of Dracos single handedly, and since they were allies to the Kulshedrans, Zoltek took it upon himself to find that man.
“You were rather easy to spot, the only seven-foot giant with no hair and light skin.”
“Yes, so that messenger found me, and gave me the note from Zoltek.” Life was yet strange, but the coming morning, and battle, gave him hope. “Pray this work for Zoltek yields some truth. I must learn who I am,” he whispered.
“You’re sweating already?” she eyed him. “Is it me or this stifling heat?”
“Both, perhaps.”
“Have some cool water then.”
She poured some water from the clay jug into a cup and handed it to him. He sipped while turning back to the horizon. She took the cup and left him to ruminations. A short while later, the sun fully rose over the mountain peaks in the east.
The southern territories, such as the lands under the guidance of Zmaj, Kulshedra, and Drac, were predominantly warm and dry climates. Even early mornings, if devoid of wind, grew hot quickly. Scar walked down to the base of the tower leaving the heat for cover. The men were already gathered about the tables eating and drinking.
“An easy battle we had last night, eh?” one warrior asked.
“Quite,” another replied. “The Kulshedrans are so weak.”
Scar rolled his eyes. “Don’t you remember what Dumar told you? Our easy victory wasn’t due to any weakness on the enemy’s part. The Kulshedrans of the outpost were outnumbered and outsmarted. That’s why they fell so easily. The same thing can happen to us if we grow complacent, so listen up.” He cleared his throat and waited for everyone’s attention. The men quieted down, and he continued. “It won’t be much longer before the supply wagon rolls in…maybe by noon, or evening at the latest. Stay sharp. Find some fitting gear from the corpses, sleeping quarters, or wherever. Put it on to blend in with their kind and maintain a low profile. You don’t want them noticing right away your dark skin. Besides, it won’t do good for the cart to pull up and find twenty men in black leathers.”
“Aye,” one warrior replied and star
ted shuffling the rest along.
“Shadri, come with me to the roof,” Scar ordered. “We will keep an eye out for the wagon’s approach.”
Nimbly, the one called Shadri darted by his kinsmen and caught up to Scar. Walking together up the steps, Scar glanced at the Zmajan’s skin; he never tired of their gorgeous patterns. Shadri was adorned by angular lines of purple and black.
Under the cloth covering the roof, Shadri asked, “You want me to gaze at the east?”
“Yes.”
The Zmajan pulled a wicker chair close to the table, sat down then produced his telescope. Minutes of keeping vigil passed by in quietude. Occasionally, the two men traded glances. Shadri place his elbows on the table to steady the telescope and alleviate the tightness in his back. Everything remained still on the eastern horizon where the Shumite mountain range spanned the Kulshedran-Draco border. Before long, both men were sweating profusely.
Shadri pulled back from the telescope to wipe his brow. He and Scar made eye contact again. Stifling heat made keeping vigil a brutal affair.
“Nothing yet, eh?” Scar asked.
“Not–” Shadri stopped abruptly, and placed his eye to the lens. “Wait. I see a puff of dust. It’s…yes. The wagon is coming from a passage just west of the mountains. If you hurry, I doubt they’ll see the flaming bolt from such distance and in the light of day.”
“Good work.”
Scar quickly secured oil soaked cloths to the loaded bolt of the ballista. He took the lantern from the table to light the cloths, and when they caught flame, he fired the bolt to the south where General Dumar and the remaining Zmajans waited. The fiery projectile went hurling through the sky with an echoing twang. It left a trail of black smoke behind, but that dissipated in seconds.
****
“Aye,” Dumar said, pointing. “There it is.”
The General and second half of the Zmajan warriors sat resting by the hillside. When the bolt appeared in the northern skies, they gathered their gear. The flaming bolt soared overhead. Some of them craned their necks to watch it vanish behind a wood line.