Valeran
The journey from the besieged castle had been mostly free of incident and the villages Valeran had stopped at had been largely unaffected by anything happening around them. As the locale had been at war for just over a century, they had pretty much run out of men of fighting age and had agreed that it might be good to do some farming, engage in commerce, contemplate religion, spirituality and culture, and do a lot of fucking. For about a hundred years.
The village had literally run out of men. At least of fighting age. During the last period of war boys, and a lot more girls than was considered seemly, had fought in pitch battles until the counting up was done. A draw was once again announced, and this was when they had decided to lay off for a bit. It was a maths thing. War always was.
One of the unexpected results of the horrific flushing of men and boys lives down the toilet had been the rise in the number of ladies who decided to take up soldiering as a profession. Freed from the restraints of domineering fathers, who were dead, and disapproving brothers, also dead, they decided that if swinging a sword at someone’s head was worthy of being paid, of having songs sung about it, and of forming unbreakable bonds of honour, then washing the dishes, raising kids, and bending over while your pissed-up husband attempted to locate any available orifice in which to shove his ill-sanitised penis for up to two minutes could fuck right off. The Sisters of Steel rose. And the men pissed themselves laughing. For a very short while. Valeran had witnessed first-hand what the Sisters were capable of. It was odd at first. Seeing these former maids, wives, even grandmothers garbed in second-hand chainmail, leather jerkins and carrying swords awkwardly about their hips. In fact, the sword thing had been one of the first changes they made to their
look. The Sisters now carried their swords on their back. It was supposed to be symbolic, Valeran didn’t know what of, but it did mean that even the shortest of the ladies could have a large sword to hand without it ploughing the earth as they walked. It also looked very cool. Especially when there were two, crossed over.
The look wasn’t everything. Specially smithed breast-plates that actually held real breasts were nice, helmets accommodated long hair, so they no longer had to sheer off their locks unless they really wanted too, their boots, he had noticed, were slightly taller in the heel, height was a thing for some, and these went some ways to bringing the Sisters to a soldierly height. Valeran wasn’t sure this was needed though. He had witnessed a Sister of four-feet eight cut a man’s guts open as though she were opening up a fish. Only butchers cut things up more frequently than women. No wonder this line of work came so easily to some of them.
His thoughts of warrior women, of tempered breastplates and dangerous women came to him as, no sooner had he entered the market square of the town he had arrived in he saw one. Fighting.
He climbed down from the horse he had stolen in the name of Razta, God of Expedience, and walked it to a nearby hitching post. After securing the animal, he moved in closer to see the show.
This was no stripling of a wench, thank the Gods, she was young though, perhaps in her twenties, but was no five-foot munchkin of a lass. She was moving about the very centre of the square with both her swords presented in a classic defensive mode, one high and threatening, and one at waist height prepared to parry and riposte, and she was easily as tall as an average fellow.
The man she fought was shorter than himsel. But as at six-foot two Valeran was noticeable in his Order’s robes wherever he went. The robes were meant to be white, but they had only been that colour once, on the day he had been presented with them at his Grand Acceptance. Since then the shade varied from cream, to beige to filthy brown.
The girl, Valeran narrowed his eyes to get a better look at her, was clad in fairly average clothes, dirty linen britches, a chain mail vest, over which was a very poorly fitted breastplate, and a metal helmet that, like the breastplate, looked as though it had been fashioned to fit something fundamentally larger than it covered at present. It kept slipping down over her eyes.
If the lady’s garb was somewhat cheap and haphazard in its style, then her opponent represented the exact opposite. His shins, thighs and chest were protected with beautifully fashioned plates which were covered with highly polished Chromium, a very fine and very strong metal layer that wouldn't even take a scratch from a standard blade. He sported tough leather pads on each shoulder, not metal, and these were designed to allow maximum movement of his arms. His helmet fitted well, with its side flaps hugging the fighter’s cheeks. Valeran had no doubt the thing was padded to help resist concussions. But their armour was not what drew Valeran’s attention, it was their movement.
She skipped, flipped and spun with incredible agility, while he thrust, side-stepped and charged with near-perfect timing and eye-widening power. They were, it appeared, matched in skill if not in ensemble. Should the girl allow him to bring his superior strength down upon her she would be finished, if he failed to counter the rapid and sudden swings of her blades towards the spots where his fine armour offered little protection, he was doomed.
Valeran eyed the combat cautiously but with reserved interest. He could use a fighter or warrior. Perhaps one of these could be persuaded to join him. He noted that there was quite a crowd forming and bets were being taken. He reached into a pocket hidden in the fold of his robe and withdrew his last few coppers pieces. If he chose wisely there would be a bed and a hot meal for him tonight. Unfortunately, once he had placed his coin into a seedy looking gentleman who wore the zig-zagged scarf about is neck of a Bookie, Valeran realized he had not chosen wisely when the girl, distracted by a feint expertly performed by the man, resulted in her copping for a riposte that slashed across her thigh. With
no armour to absorb or deflect the swing his blade cut deep into the skin and muscle.
‘Bugger.’ Valeran muttered, as a mix of cheers and groans rose into the air. ‘I knew I should have followed my head and not my bloody heart.’
To her credit the girl blocked each of the strikes that followed up the successful hit with great skill, but Valeran could already see her skin was beginning to lose its colour.
‘Hmm.’
Valeran glanced around the crowd. They were all very excited, very focused on the blood that pumped from the girls wound every time she was forced to move with some speed. Which was becoming more frequent as the man pressed his advantage.
‘Nice clean wound, hidden by the cloth hanging about her britches. Plenty of blood already evident to keep the gore-hounds happy.’
Valeran slipped a hand into his voluminous robes and discreetly withdrew a small wooden effigy, easily hidden by his large slim hands. He opened his fist a little and looked down at it.
Loki, The God of Pranks and Japes looked up at him. Loki was of the Norse family, a little-known bunch on this world but quite popular elsewhere he had heard, until they had faded, as all Gods do. Valeran squeezed the effigy and closed his eyes. He offered a little prayer to Loki, carefully choosing his words and using the parlance traditionally used when communicating with Gods of this nature.
‘Alright Loki mate. How’s it goin? Blimey chief, I’ve got a corker here. Some bird is having a shindig with this bloke and, what it is, right, is she’s took a right twattin. Proper fit she is as well, blindin, anyway, what it is, right, is everyone’s bet against her beating this geezer in one on one combat, and I was wonderin if, y’know, maybe, we could have a bit of fun at this fella’s expense. Shut the faces of all these knob heads with their mouths wide open at the sight o’ this poor girl bein abused by this bloke.’
It was long a shot. He hadn’t spoken to Loki in a long, long time and given the state of the world right now Valeran thought that a Trickster God was probably very busy. But Loki wasn’t
exactly a top tier God these so days which meant he didn’t have many fans, so…’
He felt a warm trickle of energy flow from the effigy into his hand. It was unmistakable, such power, even when delivered in micros
copic amounts was incredible. Valeran stiffened as he accepted the charge to his system. He opened his eyes. Focused on the lass, tightened his gaze upon her thigh and prepared to do his thing. Naturally, it relied on Loki understanding that a distraction was required but Loki was a very smart God. He just occasionally lacked a sense of occasion.
The distraction came in the form of the Tom Bonzo, the Town Idiot running through the crowd naked, his buttocks painted blue. Into his darkest of tunnels, the poor man had inserted a firecracker, which fizzed like a sparkling tail. The crowd parted as he ran by, pushing at him and shouting their indignity at his lack of dignity.
‘I’m a space rocket!’ He shouted. ‘I will have lift off in three, two…’
His countdown was off by two seconds but there was a loud bang that indicated that Lift Off had indeed happened.
Valeran suddenly realized that the distraction had been so good that he too had been distracted.
‘Bugger.’ He said.
Seeing that both the girl and the man were looking towards where Tom was rubbing at his Take Off Platform, he took his chance and cast his Blessing. Had anyone being paying close attention they might have seen the shimmer that appeared around the injured leg of the girl. A sort of weak, golden light.
Had they been very close to her, they would have felt a strange warmth envelope them, and had the noise of the crowd not been so loud and shouty, the girl might have been heard uttering a strange and suspiciously orgasmic, ‘Oh!’
No one saw or heard anything. Tom Bonzo’s sore and soot blackened orifice commanded their full attention. At least until Tom’s aged mother appeared, shouting, ‘Tom! Get your backside home, you bad lad!’
Tom didn’t hesitate, he began to move away, trying to shake hands with those he passed as if he had just accepted their nomination of him for the position of President of Loons.
Valeran looked away from the girl for a moment and gazed at the Town Idiot with an creased with an expression of mild shame. People like Tom Bonzo needed help and understanding. Not ridicule and hostility. Not rejection. But that was not how the crowd worked. Loki knew the mob mentality and Loki chose his targets well He turned back to the girl. Now that Tom was a retreating figure and the crowd closed back around them, the two began to circle, stepping sideways. It was back on. It was time to fight. The man charged, he had let too much time slide by and was in danger of losing his momentum. To his surprise, and to hers also, as he moved in with a very well executed feint and swing, the girl moved in a semi-circle around him, one foot turning on the spot as the other stepped around. The wound should have caused great pain at the very least, prevented the manoeuvre altogether being most likely, but it hadn’t. In fact, she was so surprised that.
her instinctive action had worked that she failed to follow up on the advantageous position it had given her. Instead she thrust her blades at her opponent but with less than half of the strength she could have normally mustered. But it the strike hit his side. There was only his chain mail here, and while it did its job and prevented nasty punctures, the force of blades, and this coupled with his surprise at the excellent move, the fighter, no apprentice at arms, quickly stepped out of the circle of attack he had envisioned and moved to a more defensive perimeter.
She would have to come to him. He would force her to move. He looked at her thigh, there was plenty of blood, but perhaps he had not cut as deeply as he had thought. He cursed. He had hoped his strong attacks had weakened her, that she was close to done, not least of all because her constant leaping, jumping and sliding had tired his muscles. He was feeling the effects of all of the effort in his arms and thighs, and now a creeping sensation of dread had begun to crawl over his skin he began to wonder if perhaps he had not said what he had said to her, if maybe he not
tried to do what he had…
The girl came at him. The weakening, desperate but determined look she had worn as he had pushed at her was gone, now she brought back the expression she had presented him with when he had attempted to slide his hand into her britches inside the bar.
She was angry. Cosmically angry. Wrath of the Gods angry.
As she came on he was forced to present three of the best blocking actions he had ever performed in all his years of soldiery. He staggered backwards. The force of the blows was even stronger than before he had injured her. She had clearly gotten her second wind and was fighting with every ounce of her might, nothing was held back, nothing reserved for pity or mercy.
The fighter realized too late that he had been guilty of one of the worst crimes of single combat. He had underestimated his opponent. He understood in a single moment of clarity he had been wrong. This girl, perhaps all girls, did not exist just to entertain him or to satisfy his animalistic desires. They were mothers, wives and daughters, yes, but they were people too. They were farmers, weavers, business owners and thinkers. And they were fighters on many levels.
Another feat of agility was performed by the girl, a flip, heels over her head, confusing him, then her swords crossed, slid under his own blade, and twisted. His sword was snatched from his grip and flew across the square. The crowd roared at this sudden comeback. A booted foot followed, its thick heel belting into his waist. It knocked the wind out him, his knees lost all contact with his legs, and he dropped.
He looked up at her as she stepped forwards. Sweat poured down her face, and hair that had come forwards stuck to her cheeks. She was very pretty he thought, that had been his mistake he supposed, what harm could a pretty girl be? He would sport himself with her, a few coppers would deal with any tears. What harm?
Gazing into her eyes, blue he finally noticed, like the ice that floated in the far northern sea of Halberan, he saw her anger and
frustration and perhaps a sliver of remorse.
‘I’m sorry.’ He said.
The fighter spread her swords outwards, like an eagle opening its wings then drew them forwards with accurate force. The man’s head jumped a little. Then rolled down his front to the floor.
‘Me too.’ She said.
Andy & Don
The sky was beginning to lose its light and clouds scuttled across it threatening wind and rain and he didn’t like the look of it.
‘Sure. Ve can camp.’ The big man replied. ‘I vill hunt for food for us and get vild cabbage for Francis.’
‘Right.’ Donalt replied.
With this agreed Donalt picked up speed to scout ahead for a suitable place to set up for the night. Some of the hills were scoured at the sides and offered overhangs that would shelter them from the worst of any weather. He trotted among them until he found a spot with access to the lightly wooded area to the east and a spring of fresh water bubbling away nearby.
Andreton arrived and looked about. ‘Good place Don. Andreton likes it.’
‘Yeah. We can rest for the night and hit the Town by tomorrow evening.’ Donalt replied, pulling his kit bag from his mount, and then began preparing a fire. He paused as he started to arrange the kindle, watching Andreton move Francis near to the side of the hill.
‘Er… Andy, could you make sure Francis is fastened up proper.’ He switched his attention to the great beast, who returned his gaze with singular enmity.
‘Aww.’ Andreton said, rubbing the clump of fur between the Steppe-beast’s horns, the hair hung down over its eyes. ‘He’s a
good boy. He von’t run avay from Andreton.’
‘No. He probably won’t. But he might decide to use Donalt as toilet paper, so could you please just keep him properly tied?’
‘Alright Mister Mardy Poops.’ Andreton said, as he rubbed his face in the beast’s clump of hair and then gave it a big kiss.’
‘Francis. Andreton is going to hunt for food and cabbages. You be a good boy and don’t kill Mister Don.’
Donalt watched this exchange with distant, resigned acceptance. Then, once Andreton was finished fussing over his new pet the big man set off towards the woodland, his great axe jiggling across his should
ers as he sauntered off.
The fire was quickly lit. Donalt was an expert in self-sufficiency. He could have hunted for game but Andreton was, at best, inept at fire-making, if not actually a danger to himself and others and so he always offered to prepare the camp and cook the meals. Besides he enjoyed cooking. It was good to use exotic herbs and spice for something other than making a man’s heart explode or his brain turn to jelly.
He looked around the camp for any wild lettuce, fruit or roots that could be used to enhance whatever meat Andreton brought back with him. Ladies Lace was good with rabbit. A succulent root that could be lightly fried to produce a …
He paused as a feeling touched at his senses. A warning. Either his ears, or his nose, or the hairs on his arms had detected something. His brain had not yet managed to figure out from the information available exactly what it was, and so a general alarm had been issued. He continued to examine the roots, not wanting to give whoever, or whatever was out there any indication that he had detected them. As he turned them over he made a performance of choosing what might be a good root for his meal, then he trod slowly and inconspicuously towards his pack where his more traditional weapons lay.
‘Hold it there mate.’ A voice, gruff and blunt, sounded from behind him.Donalt listened carefully as he did as he was instructed. His sensitive ears picked up the careful tread of leather soles upon the damp grass. There were others, not just the man with the voice.
‘Evening.’ Donalt said. ‘I’m just getting ready to make a meal, you are welcome to join.’
He didn’t look around, instead he focused on the Ladies Lace in his hands, slowly squeezing the thick bulbs between his strong fingers.
Rocks Fall Everyone Dies Page 5