Civilization- Barbarians

by Tim Underwood

  Marcus was three miles away from the attack.

  He could run that far in less than fifteen minutes, but he would be too tired to fight if he did, and it would be too late.

  And my stomach froze.

  The group had been found by children. The children had been knocked over their heads, but one child was very still under the trees, unseen so far by the barbarian warriors, staring wide eyed at them. I could see the barbarians from his perspective.

  And then on the ground, unconscious with the other children, was Cassandra.

  The leader of the barbarians picked her up and looked at her closely.

  The little girl looked tiny in the arms of a hulking muscular brute. He slapped her awake. Then as she squirmed and struggled to escape from his grip, he touched her forehead and looked deep into her eyes while chanting something I could not hear under his breath, despite now being able to hear everything Cassandra could.

  The barbarian leader malevolently smirked. He exclaimed to the others. The translation said, Positive identification. She is the target. Immediate escape necessary.

  One of the other barbarians pointed towards the other knocked out children and said, Objects of substantial monetary worth.

  The chief’s reply, as he tossed Cassandra over his back, completely impervious to her struggles and went to jog off, Far less profit than God-touched girl. Would slow us down.

  This leader was of a different sort of man than any other barbarian I’d seen.

  He was smaller than Marcus, but he reminded me of my warrior. He was well over six feet tall, with bulging muscles. His long spear had a metal glinting tip at the end, and he wore a breastplate that shined in the sun. And there was a sword attached on a belt to his side. Where had he gotten a sword?

  When examined the leader’s status bar everything faded in and out for a moment, but then one characteristic solidly appeared: Expert at concealment.

  He had short cropped blond hair and a short cropped beard. There was a wicked scar over his forehead, and he had greaves around his thighs. Everything on him far finer than the armor we had not managed to buy from the traders.

  The traders.

  I knew suddenly they had sold the news that there was a touched girl, a potential prophetess in my lands, and this strange dangerous man and his band had come with that information to kidnap her and sell her into a terrible slavery.

  And I, at this moment, did not know if we could stop them.

  The barbarians jogged south through the forest, in a direct path towards the edge of the plains and the forest to the south. These men moved like they were experts at travelling in a forest, their feet landed as they jogged on the balls rather than on the heels, giving the procession an eerie silence. It was only because Cassie was awake and alert that I could see anything of what they did.

  Marcus ran closer and closer behind them at a very high speed, his powerful lungs taking in gasping gulps of air as he too ran almost silently.

  I studied the barbarian’s leader and his men. One of them had taken the lead, his eyes locked on the ground as he jogged. They all followed behind him in a single file, expertly cradling their spears. The three at the back stayed grouped together, and one of them paused every twenty or thirty seconds to look back, and cup his ear to listen for any sound.

  Along the rest of the line they were glancing each way, so any movement from any direction would cause an immediate cry of alarm.

  Marcus would run them down. Especially with the fairly slow pace they took.

  But I didn’t think Marcus could kill them all. Not without being horribly wounded himself. He only had his spear with him, not his giant bow.

  I ordered Marcus to come close enough for them to know he followed them, so that they could not escape from his gaze, but to not directly try to attack them until he had support.

  And there would be only one chance for that to happen.

  I knew my elves, and I knew their capabilities.

  They were not long distance runners.

  A force of fifty soldiers and citizens had organized and was following behind Marcus and the barbarians, a dozen of them carrying spears, and the rest with bow and arrows slung over their back, jogging along. But they lost ground with every step. They’d reach the edge of my land hours after the barbarians had escaped.

  There were eight soldiers in the watchtowers along the border, and six more men in patrol in the deep woods.

  And one of the soldiers in the watchtower right now was Arnhelm.

  He had developed into by far the second deadliest man in my community behind Marcus.

  I felt a little relief at seeing that he was amongst those soldiers at this time, and would be able to plan the best place to ambush this group.

  But I feared.

  These men were professionals. They would see any simple ambush, and they would run through it. We would get one chance to kill them all. Though they might be exhausted enough to be easy prey by the time they reached where Arnhelm and his troops would set their trap.

  There was a pack of eight of the wolves, prowling like sharks seeking blood in the woods. They also were sent to join Arnhelm’s gathered force.

  Humans are long distance runners.

  Famously, exhaustion hunting was how we killed antelope on the great savannahs of Africa. A man conditioned to the effort can run for hours, shedding the heat from his body with evaporative cooling from sweating, and driving his prey to run on yet again, and again, and again every time the desperate animal stops, exhausted, to cool down.

  These men were well conditioned.

  They kept a pace of about twelve kilometers an hour solidly as they ran on and on, the entire day. A distance that should have taken a great deal of time to cross on foot was covered every few hours. They did not slow, and after the first hour, the entire time, they were aware that Marcus was behind them, shadowing them.

  And it was falling dark, despite being a long summer day, when they reached close to the border of my lands.

  Along a hilltop Arnhelm had his men, each separated by twenty yards. They waited. An arrow in each of their hands, their bow in the other. They waited for the enemy to come into sight.

  The wolves stood around Arnhelm, jostling for him to pet them, though they too were full of tension.

  And for a minute I thought it was all going to work, as the line of red dots on the minimap got closer and closer to the line of green dots.

  And Marcus behind them, waiting for the opportunity to pounce from behind and kill them all.

  And then, as they came closer and closer to us, their leader, who had passed Cassie off to another one of his men, now slowed them for him to take her back, and he pointed to the left.

  And then they started jogging around, so that they would completely avoid the ambush.

  How the hell had they seen what was coming?

  I didn’t know. Maybe this location was too obvious.

  I gave the order, but it was completely unnecessary.

  They had not even reached his sight, but Arnhelm and the elves had all pulled strongly on my blessing. They pulled so much that what I knew, they knew.

  The instant they started jogging in the other way, Arnhelm shouted and pointed. He held his spear, and he started running towards them, while the other elvish warriors fumbled with their arrows, and then jogged in the same way.

  And rushing in front of Arnhelm was the wolf pack.

  And Marcus hurled himself towards the barbarian team as well.

  Several of the archers who had been on the side that they went past were able to pull out their bows and launch a few arrows.

  The aiming was pure and clear, but the barbarians were able to respond too neatly, too quickly. As if they too had something like a spiritual blessing. Their spears or shields were in just the right place, and at just the right angle to block the falling arrows.

  But before they could reinterpose them, with growls and howls the wolves followed close by Arnhelm burst out of
the woods, hurling themselves headlong through the forest. Marcus, with a powerful blessing upon him, timed his rush at them so he hit the back of their line, his long spear set for killing, at the same instant the wolves reached them.

  The barbarians reacted instantly and perfectly to the threat.

  Three of them turned to face Marcus, long spears out, each spread out, one feinting towards him, and then jumping back while his comrades struck at Marcus if he tried to pursue the fleeing one.

  The other four turned towards the wolves and Arnhelm with spears out.

  And their leader ran away from the combat, two of his men following him, with Cassandra on his back.

  Arnhelm dodged the blow that was intended to spit him, and rushing past that spear, he plunged his spear into the chest of the barbarian in front of him, and — with a crack the flint spear point shattered against the metal breastplate.

  The other three had each stabbed a wolf. One through the throat. One through the eye. One deep in the flank. One of the wolves had leapt over his dead littermate, and seized the barbarian who killed his companion by the throat. The other barbarian had stepped back, pulling his spear back from the eye, and it flickered out, going towards Arnhelm’s unprotected head.

  And one of the wolves crashed into the blow taking the point through its left shoulder, and its weight forced the barbarian warrior to the ground.

  The one barbarian had dropped his spear, and he struck another wolf in the head with an axe, before he dodged to the side, so that a wolf leaping on him missed, and then he kept running, following his chief. The other one also abandoned the battle, having struck another wolf through the foot.

  Marcus in this time had only been able to kill one of his enemies, as the three’s careful coordination had stymied him for a minute.

  But now the remaining two seeing their comrades flee also tried to run. But Marcus speared one through the back.

  His companion turned aside as he did, and swung his axe cleanly through the head of Marcus’s big spear, before running yet further, and dodging the blow of the pole against his head by just a fraction of an inch.

  And then as he continued to run, Arnhelm had risen from where he’d stumbled during his fight, and he managed to neatly chop the barbarian’s leg with his axe.

  Marcus’s second pole chop into the head did not miss.

  The barbarian chief continued to run, with Cassandra slung on his back, followed now by just four of his men.

  Whirling flint arrows, launched by the now arrived archers chased after them, but the men mostly dodged, and two arrows clanged uselessly against the back of a breastplate, barely making the man hit stumble.

  One arrow struck one of my enemies in his left arm, and stuck there, as he howled with pain, and thick red drops fell.

  Before a second volley could be launched they were deep under cover.

  The surviving wolves whined amongst their dead. And at their bravery my heart hurt.

  Arnhelm looked at Marcus who looked back at him.

  Marcus shouted a quick order, and Arnhelm tossed him his spear, and one of the archers tossed him his bow and quiver, and then gripping the weapons easily, Marcus ran off in further pursuit.

  Arnhelm had been wounded lightly in the side but that was not why he let Marcus go on alone. The elves had no chance of catching up to these men who could run through the forest as easily as my elves could.

  Only Marcus could catch them now.

  We’d now nearly reached the border of my lands, and the enemies had barely tired.

  Marcus had a bow, and he had one of the elven spears that was much shorter than his own spear.

  He pulled on my blessing again, and he ran fast, hurtling over the ground, but not following directly after our enemies. He used all the strength in his powerful legs so that over the next two miles that my enemies travelled, now dangerously close to my border, he got ahead of them and around. He pulled to a stop, panting, and breathing deeply.

  There would be another minute before their jogging pace took them past him.

  He stuck several arrows into the ground in front of him, so he could grab them faster. Marcus crouched on the ground.

  He gasped with huge pants, but he somehow did it silently. He held one arrow, notched into the string of his borrowed bow. He knew exactly where our enemies were.

  This location was not the best ambush spot along the pathway. In fact there was a well-hidden platform a bit further down the road from which an archer could draw and pull without being seen.

  Sure enough as he came along, the barbarian leader stared at the ridge that made the obvious and easy ambush spot. He led the group to stay further away from it, and in so doing brought them closer to Marcus’s true hiding spot.

  Marcus in a single perfect muscular movement lifted himself from a crouch with just his leg muscles, and no help from his hands pulling him up.

  The bow was drawn, the arrow released. It thwanged towards where the head of the barbarian leader would be.

  The barbarian somehow knew but there was no time for him to dodge, stymied by the weight of Cassandra on his back and the momentum of rapid pace.

  But the man’s left arm, covered by a metallic greave, was suddenly in between the arrow and the fatal blow.

  And the arrow clanged helplessly to the ground, as the warrior stumbled from the force of the arrow smacking his arm into his own head.

  But this bow had not been designed to be shot by Marcus, but by a weaker elf, and there was no way to impart with its draw strength enough force to the arrow to destroy the leader’s armor.

  And the barbarian leader recovered from his stumble, and he ran faster than ever before, past Marcus.

  And even as this happened, Marcus had shot an arrow, and another arrow.

  His second arrow went through the neck of one of the barbarians. His third struck one in the shoulder, right next to the edge of the shoulder plate.

  Then the other two crashed up into the hillside near Marcus.

  Marcus used the weak bowstave to knock aside one of their spears, while his left hand shot forward to slightly knock aside the shaft of a spear, and divert the next blow past his side. That warrior lost his grip on his spear as Marcus twisted his hand around it, and he jumped back and pulled out his axe.

  He’d been holding the spear onehanded, since he was the warrior whose arm had been struck by one of the elvish arrows.

  The bow was ruined, its string snapped.

  The warrior who still had his spear stayed carefully back, swirling the tip of the weapon in dangerous circles.

  Marcus still had the spear he’d captured held in its middle in his off hand. It pointed backwards.

  The spearman stabbed forward as Marcus began to whirl the spear around in his hand while the warrior with the axe from a different angle jumped forward.

  But Marcus almost stumbled backwards, dodging the blows, and somehow he came up in a crouch, holding the spear forward now.

  Both of them backed cautiously away from him. The one with just the axe pulled it back to throw.

  Marcus took this chance to leap at his spear wielding companion. The axe flew in circles through the air, where Marcus’s head had been an instant before.

  And the tip of the other spear missed Marcus, and he struck his target through the neck.

  The axe wielder pulled another axe from his belt.

  He steadily backed away, now about twenty feet from Marcus. He didn’t let his eyes leave Marcus, and every time Marcus made any move, he gestured as though to throw the weapon.

  And the wolf who’d been blinded in one eye, that wolf had recovered enough to run back up to this battle, though slower than Marcus, and he had reached behind our enemy, gathered in a crouch, and he leapt upon the barbarian from behind. The claws shredded into the skin along the arms not protected by the armor, and the jaws closed around the back of the man’s neck.

  Marcus shot off, not waiting for the man to die. He carried the barbarian’s fine spea
r as he chased after our last enemy and Cassandra.

  But as he ran off, he took the breath to shout at the wolf, “Good boy!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The barbarian leader’s henchmen had succeeded in their goal.

  They had given the barbarian chief enough time to get enough distance in front of Marcus to get out of my territory.

  Marcus was tired by now. His run to get ahead of them, to launch his ambush, had exhausted him. And he’d both been fighting and running for a full day now.

  Fighting is much more exhausting than running.

  The barbarian leader had just run.

  And now he was past the border. I could distantly feel Cassandra. I knew she was alive, I knew more about her than I ever did with any other of my people who had gone beyond my lands, but I could no longer see her, I could no longer touch her with my blessing. And if Marcus followed her, I could not help him.

  This enemy had some sort of spiritual blessing on him.

  He’d been too good for a natural human, and he was better armed than Marcus, with a metal tipped spear and a sword, and better armored.

  He would be fresher than Marcus.

  A voice of cowardice suggested that Marcus was probably more important than Cassandra to our defense, and that I really did not want to lose both of them. Perhaps the leader would have other reinforcements outside of my range, and he’d be met by them, and able to kill Marcus easily.

  I should call Marcus back. That was the wise, rational thing to do.

  Fuck that.

  I had been raised on too many American TV shows and movies. In American stories, somehow, somehow the hero always wins, and the people who are protection objects are always saved. Maybe not always, but most of the time, even when the odds against them were really bad.

  Also, I trusted Marcus.

  Marcus could take that asshole, armor or no, blessing or no.

  I gave Marcus one last order before he disappeared past that invisible line on the map where my mind could not follow: Rescue her and don’t die.