by Aaron Dennis
“Warriors!” Dumar addressed them. “We march to the north and meet the supply wagons of Kulshedra. By dispatching the enemies of Zmaj, we earn his favor, and he grants us power. Behold.”
The sun shone brightly, and only the shadows of men graced the dusty soil of Satrone. Dumar stood—his feet spread widely—presenting his power to the men. He grabbed his axe from the ground. The blade of the weapon was an ordinary crescent, and the wooden shaft was aged oak. The general focused his gaze upon the axe. A furrow worked over his brow.
An eerie vibration radiated from the weapon, blurring its appearance. The warriors looked on with held breath as steel shards splintered away from the axe’s head and curled upon themselves. More steel slid away only to collapse and reform into a perfectly round blade. As gasps washed over the crowd, Dumar’s power continued to alter the weapon. Segmented steel grew over the shaft. Steel studs reinforced the grip, and then the most awe inspiring event unfolded; the circular blade started spinning with a high pitched whine all of its own accord.
“You see?” Dumar gloated. “I have created a magnificent, killing machine with the power of Zmaj, the All God.”
He brought the spinning blade close to a stone causing bright sparks to shoot forth in a brilliant flurry of yellow streaks. A second later, the stone was sawed in half, and cheers erupted from the warriors.
“Zmaj, Zmaj, Zmaj!” they all chanted.
“March!” Dumar howled.
The squadron of warriors jogged in formation across sandy hills and towards the guard tower to meet Scar’s half of the Zmajan force.
****
Shadri remained in observation of the approaching wagon. The thin, cloth cover above them gave little respite from the increasing temperature. Beads of sweat poured over his form. Scar, also gleaming from the oblique sunlight, took his blade in hand.
“I will stand ready,” he said. “Shadri, keep your eyes on the horizon for any reinforcements. Truthfully, I doubt you’ll see anything, but if there is trouble, give the gong a single whack.”
“Aye.”
Scar stormed down the flights of stairs, calling out to the many Zmajans throughout. “Ready yourselves. The time for battle is nearly upon us.”
At the base of the tower, in the cooler shade, those under the leadership of Scar already changed their armor to the customary brown leathers of Kulshedran fighters.
“Four of you take seats at the tables so the wagoneers will think you Kulshedrans. The rest of you, ensconce yourselves on the stairs, or behind the supporting pylons. You there, you hide around the west side of the tower. Once the wagon is safely inside, we swarm,” Scar ordered.
“Hurrah,” they answered in unison.
Scar stood under the archway of the west entry with his blade resting over his right shoulder. From his vantage point, he saw the beaten path coming in from the east. The wagon was minutes from pulling into the tower. The brute popped the fingers of his left hand by putting pressure at the joints with his thumb. A moment after, the wagon pulled in, towed by muscular horses.
Two old Kulshedrans sitting at the head of the cart scrutinized Scar. Some guards sat in the back of the carriage’s second car holding their long spears. They weren’t paying any attention to their surroundings.
The white haired wagoneer let go the reins, hopped off the wagon bench, and patted the horses. It was increasingly obvious they were so used to their route that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, except Scar. He maintained his scrutiny of the old Kulshedran.
The wagoneer turned to address the soldiers at the tables, “You there, who is this man?”
Scar grinned and taking a step forward, he pointed his sword at the wagoneer.
“Look out!” the other wagoneer hollered.
Alarmed by Scar’s movements, he hopped off the bench with sword drawn. The oldest wagoneer gasped in shock, but Scar ran him through before he so much as locked fingers around the handle of his short sword.
“Oh no,” the other wagoneer cried out.
He stood there distraught with blade drawn. By the time the soldiers at the tables drew their weapons to slay him, the Zmajans posted at the stairs ran down to swarm the cart. Though the four Kulshedran guards tried to stab from the rear of the cart, Zoltek’s fighters whooped and yelled as they struck back.
One Kulshedran female bounded over the covered supplies in an attempt to take the reins from the bench, but before she managed to secure the horses, Dumar ran in from the southern entrance howling like a madman.
“Rend their flesh!” the grizzled general commanded and brought down his spinning axe.
She shrieked in horror, fingers just touching the reins, but Dumar’s morphed weapon sawed clean through her arm. When she fell from the cart, Dumar’s battalion circled. The commotion frightened the horses, and they reared up ready to turn tail. Scar quickly placated the whinnying beasts; the wagon was an absolute necessity in maintaining easy victories.
The combined forces of Dumar’s and Scar’s men finished dismembering the remaining Kulshedrans. All in all, everything had panned out the way Scar promised Zoltek. With no Zmajan casualties, he was certain it was only a matter of time before Zoltek blessed his strategic efforts by providing him his origin.
“Ha, ha, ha,” Dumar laughed. “Well, Scar, your cunning has worked to our benefit so far.”
“Indeed. Now we pose as wagoneers and move to the next outpost in the west.”
“Quickly, men,” the General commanded. “Remove the supplies from the wagon so we may fit many inside.”
Following their orders, the warriors drew back the cloth covering the supplies. Bolts, food, jugs of water, and everything else was tossed from the wagon. Once cleared, those wearing Kulshedran apparel scrunched inside the back of the cart. Two more took the reins and four pretended to be guards with long spears.
“Scar,” Dumar called. “This totals only a dozen men, and surely the Kulshedrans will notice our skin when we infiltrate the next tower.”
“Truth.”
Soldiers looked to their general waiting for the assertion to be addressed. During the short interim, Dumar’s axe stopped its spinning, and resumed its normal appearance. Scar eyed the process in silence. Such strange magic, he thought.
“Though we move in with only a dozen, I am joining the fray,” Scar replied.
“I see,” Dumar stated, stroking his chin. “You have not disappointed so far. We will wait for the flaming bolt to fly then.”
“Excellent,” Scar said. “I’m certain my strategy will play out with minimal losses. Today, we ride to secure the second tower. After the bolt flies, the rest of you will march to our position. By the time you have arrived, we will have moved on to the third tower. No word will have reached Kulshedran ears that we are on the prowl.”
Everyone was satisfied with the proceedings, so Scar climbed into the back of the wagon. Seven men were arses to elbows in there. Dumar flung the cloth cover over them, secured it to the wagon’s frame then sent it off to ride west down the beaten trail.
“Ya!” the new wagoneers commanded, and the horses took off kicking up dust in their wake.
Chapter Three- Complications
Under cover of cloth, the Zmajan’s jostled by the cart ride grumbled. The foul smell of sweaty men was unbearable, but the current arrangement was a necessity to assure a swift victory with a paltry number of soldiers. Chatter eased the tension.
“This is a great ruse,” one whispered.
“Aye,” another agreed. “Perhaps there’ll be a sweet piece to take as a love slave.”
“Always your mind on your cock, Eldru,” one joked.
“What about you, Scar,” another asked. “I heard you bedded Kaviri.”
“Word spreads quickly I suppose…yes. She was sweeter than I imagined,” Scar answered.
It was during the chuckling that the cart slowed. Cries of “Whoa”, and “slowly now”, were heard from the wagoneers. A change in lighting through the cloth indicated they h
ad pulled into the base of the second tower, into the shade. The men held their breaths.
Kulshedran guards were heard approaching. While the Zmajan wagoneers’ armor gave them the look of allied forces, their skin tone betrayed their true purpose. The emerald eyes of one exceptionally smart Kulshedran went wide with understanding and alarm. Quickly as he reached for his blade, another howled “Ambush!” Scar’s plan had failed before it started.
“Now,” Scar yelled and ripped the cloth from his head.
The battle broke out in a bloody mess when one Kulshedran struck a wagoneer with his long spear. Quickly, Scar and his men hopped over the sides of the cart. Swings of blade, axe, and spear resounded against one another. When the gong from the top floor rang, a dozen Kulshedrans poured down the stairs and into the fray.
“Steel yourselves!” Scar called out and cut one man down with ease, shoulder rolled over a wooden table, kicked another in the sternum then made for the stairs. “I will hold them here,” he growled.
By ducking beneath weapons, and forcing two Kulshedrans to the bottom stair, he did well to bottleneck the coming masses. The enemies grunted, and struck at him with their spears, but the mercenary easily blocked their attacks and slew them. Unfortunately, his back was exposed and he received the crescent blade of an axe across his spine.
“For Kulshedra!” the attacker yelled in victory.
It was premature. Scar had indeed stumbled forward in pain, and fell upon the opponents dead on the stairs, but he was far from defeated. He turned over and slashed out the attacker’s knees. The enemy fell to the ground crying.
It was pandemonium. The ambush had not gone as planned, and the dwindling Zmajans were being obliterated. Inevitably, more Kulshedrans turned their weapons on Scar, so he bolted up the stairs. Knocking over a handful of enemies on the way, he arrived at the second level in time to see a soldier hop over the guardrail. Damn, he’s making a break to report our intrusion, Scar reasoned.
Though he tried to give chase, several soldiers ran down from the floor above. In the quickly cramping stone quarters the Kulshedrans made their stand. The first soldier to close the distance swung his sword from overhead. Scar thrust his blade, and with his reach coupled with his blade’s length, he stabbed into the man’s belly, spun around, and slashed at the chest of two others who were in mid charge.
A brazen group dashed into him, bowling him to the ground. They rained fists, pommels, shafts, and blades into his flesh, but with a mighty bucking of his hips, Scar managed to knock the assailants off. After throwing a left fist into the closest, he ran to the guardrail and flipped backwards over the edge.
Careening to the ground was far less pleasant than presumable. As the wind escaped his lungs, Scar worked himself to his feet only to have to dodge arrows from above, and more soldiers spilling from the ground floor. He whipped his head to the side. The escaped Kulshedran was fast, and had gained quite some distance, but was still in sight. Thankfully, Scar’s body had already recovered, and so he gave chase through the chaparral, leaving the angry platoon of enemy soldiers in the distance.
Feet pounded the dusty ground. Scar maintained a tight grasp around his blade’s handle as he pushed himself to the limit. Stride for stride he covered more ground, but the quick Kulshedran was still yards away. Gritting his teeth and breathing in through his nose Scar held his speed with ease. The Kulshedran, however, was growing weary and slowly losing momentum. Twice Scar noticed the man faltered and peeked over his shoulder.
During the chase, the fleeing enemy dropped his sword and started stripping off his armor to allow for better mobility. He stumbled about as he did, and lost his footing. He tumbled over, pulled off his cuirass to reveal bronze skin gleaming with perspiration, and managed back to his feet in time for Scar to leap into him. They both crashed to the ground, the dust smearing in with their sweat.
The Kulshedran grunted, kicked, and tried to scurry away, bur Scar was relentless. He dropped his sword, latched hands around the man’s head, and by using his legs to hold him in place, he twisted the man’s neck until it broke. The body jerked once then went limp. Scar tossed him aside, snatched his great sword, and readied himself for the approaching soldiers. They were screaming with battle lust.
“I’ll cut you down!” the mercenary growled in warning.
Two Kulshedrans stopped short. It was not fear that held their feet planted, but the need to steady drawn arrows. A furrow creased Scar’s brow. This won’t be easy, he thought. Or will it? More enemies were coming to assist the archers. He sniffed once while his body relaxed. The previous pounding of the heart and rapid breathing waned into a sublime peace. Then the arrows came flying in.
It was a rather simple maneuver; Scar ran forward with the understanding that the archers had aimed at his previous post, and that once the archers’ bodies relaxed in release, the arrows were on an unalterable course. In having covered less than two yards by the time the projectiles arrived, Scar was already out of harm’s way and crashing blade through the shield of a soldier. The impact of steel against bronze shield rattled the weapon in Scar’s hand, but the enemy hit the ground with a thud.
The remaining men swarmed, Scar’s head towering over them. Their proximity made it difficult to place their attacks without injuring their friends, so Scar lifted his sword straight into the air, thus cleaving a man from stem to sternum. Following the strike with a blood curdling yell, the bladesman delivered a booted foot into the bleeding enemy, and he fell back hard into the others. That provided a pocket, which Scar used to shoulder roll forward into the injured, as well as away from the horde at his rear. After spinning his sword around his head from a lower position, enough enemies were hacked at the knees for Scar to dash away.
“Damn it,” he barked. Running wasn’t going to solve anything; it only provided enemies a chance to warn their brethren, so he halted and turned around. “Make your peace with Kulshedra,” the mercenary spat and eyed the opposition.
An archer released a wicked grin and an arrow. Scar deftly rolled at an angle from the projectile. It zipped by leaving him unscathed. Again Scar ran in to greet the soldiers with glinting steel. One slash and another cut through the enemy.
Scar parried the spears without difficulty and blocked an axe with his forearm. The blow resounded with a wet, hacking sound and blood was drawn. It was painful, but too insignificant to slow the mercenary. Scar spat in the soldier’s face, head butted her then maneuvered her form between the others by way of grabbing the flat of his blade and pivoting his sword with his body. When she fell over, he followed up with a high cross slash.
Only three more. “Argh,” Scar cried out when pain accosted his leg. It was three soldiers and two archers, idiot!
There wasn’t time to complain; an arrow had pierced Scar’s thigh, and he feared incurring real impairment- not in matters of personal safety, but in regards to recovering from the disastrous mission. Quickly butting a rushing Kulshedran with the pommel of his sword, Scar back-fisted another, and finally cut down the third melee fighter.
“Now you’re done,” Scar promised the archers.
He stomped down on a bleeding Kulshedran and made his approach. The archers glanced at one another before taking off in different directions. Damn, they’ll warn the others. I– His thoughts were cut short when a soldier wrapped her limbs around his leg and jerked at the protruding arrow.
“Wench!” he screamed, and drew his foot up high. She went sailing through the air. Her landing on her head rendered her unconscious. “I have to kill them all or they’ll just run off!” He worked fast to sink his blade through brown, leather armor then looked up to find the archers had gained notable distance and in opposing directions. “Which one do I chase?”
With a shake of the head in aggravation, he chose the one heading northwest believing that one was to reach the next outpost before the other reached wherever he was going. Scar ran as quickly as his body allowed. Haggard breaths shot from his mouth, but his tireless musc
les prevailed. The archer glanced back a few times, and knowing his fate was sealed, he grit his teeth, dropped his bow, drew a short sword, and turned to charge at Scar.
The hot sun beamed down onto both men. As their muscles pumped with exertion, they drew closer to one another. Their eyes met and the soldier screamed his battle cry.
“Kulshedraaaa!”
Scar lopped his head off. “Damn,” the mercenary cursed. He looked off into the sunny distance only to see the other archer was but a shadowed speck far away. “No way to catch him.”
Opting to return to the outpost and warn General Dumar upon his appearance, he let the fleeing archer go. Scar heaved a sigh, used the dead man’s short sword to cut the arrow from his leg then jogged back towards the tower. His wound was healed before he arrived.
Chapter Four- Assassin
The gong was still echoing across the land. Each subsequent bong forced a chill up Scar’s spine. Upon his return from scuffling in the desert, the mercenary found his men still fighting the Kulshedrans. Clanging steel sounded from all through the tower. He joined in slaying the remaining enemies posted at the base floor. For the great bladesman, it took little effort to polish off the opposition. With a wipe of sweat from his face, Scar counted his men. Three remained. They were not in good shape.
“How many have you killed?” he asked them.
“I don’t know,” a man with tattered armor grunted. “A dozen?”
Scar’s eyes darted around. The man before him was splotched with blood, and as much of it appeared his own. The battlement was a replica of the previous one; tables, chairs, food, beverages. One difference was the ruined cart and dead horses. The ambush had petered out miserably. Worse yet, the gong continued ringing.