Fresh Meat, Part 5

Ergin’s ax swung in wide arcing loops. Once the momentum was there, it functioned almost as well as having a shield so long as he didn’t find himself surrounded. His arms grew tired with the effort of maintaining the momentum. Two of the savages attempted to circle around him. They dodged back every time the heavy head of the ax loped near them. He placed his steps with care bringing him closer to the more brazen young warrior. A wet thunk sounded as the sharpened blade made contact with the man’s wrist, severing the hand that held the the short knives the natives all favored.

Ergin ignored the man as soon as he fell to his knees gripping the bloody stump. He focused his attention on the other young warrior who seemed stunned by the vicious strike his fellow soldier had received. Ergin seized the presented opportunity. He knew hesitation would make him dead. The ax bit into the other warriors chest cracking the ribs. Ergin swung his foot up and pushed off the dead body. He scanned the fracas before him. He kept his ax ready but took the respite to catch his breath.

He cursed himself for coming back to the battle he knew was coming. He could have been sleeping restlessly well away from the bloodshed he was now a part of. He spotted one of the larger warriors, older by the look, lashing out at two of the young soldiers of the King’s army with the razor sharp knife. Ergin appraised him as the ring leader. “Cut off the head…” he muttered to himself. Hefting his ax, he started a slow trot to the apparent leader of this band of skirmishers.

He covered half the ground before the world rushed up to greet him. Ergin’s head throbbed. His vision blurred. He blinked and fought through the fuzz and pain in his head. He realized there was one of the young warriors sitting astride him repeatedly slashing a knife at his chest. His chain shirt absorbed the brunt of the damage. He wagered there’d be some nasty bruising. He came to his sense and swung the haft of the ax to knock the young man off his chest. They both rose to their feet. Ergin respected the young man. He hadn’t backed off in fear of the blade of the weapon. He shifted his grip higher up the weapon. He knew it would not be as effective in close combat but it was better than nothing.

The young man charged again. Ergin sidestepped and smacked him with the butt of the ax. The warrior wheeled around immediately and lashed out with his blade. The edge caught Ergin’s forearm. The blood soaked into his shirtsleeve. Exhaustion from his earlier exertions weighed Ergin down. He struck at the warrior with his blade. The man dodged, opening some distance between them. Ergin adjusted his grip on the ax once more. He began to swing it in its butterfly arcs. The young warrior realized his mistake a moment too late. Ergin moved forward, intent on ending the encounter.  He felt a blade pierce through the back of his chain. It slid between his ribs. He gasped raggedly as it punctured his lung. The ax fell from his grip.

He looked around. Panic lit his eyes as he saw the rest of the segment of the king’s army falling around him. The warrior who had sneaked up behind him released him and he dropped to the ground. His breathing grew shallower. Ergin closed his eyes and pictured the noodle shop.


Apropos of: Arathania

-Crouse

Fresh Meat, Part 4

Ashar waited in at the line where the jungle grew thicker. His knuckles grew white from the tightened grip he clutched his kukri with. He counted his breaths. Other young warriors mimicked his actions beside him. His brother gave them clear directions they must follow before allowing them to join the fray with the blooded warriors. Despite the breathing technique meant to induce a calm, clear head, Ashar felt waves of impatience bearing down on him. The impatience grew as his count came closer to the number his brother had set. Shouting and smoke from uncontrolled flames drifted to the group waiting for their turn to earn a name.

Ashar worried the blooded warriors would not leave any soldiers left for him or his fellow unblooded. The urge struck him to speed up his breathing. He fought it down. Slow in. Slow out. He continued just the way his brother had demonstrated. One of the young warriors waiting broke suddenly from the line and ran for the fighting. Ashar panicked. He wondered if he had lost count. He wanted to follow after. Two other warriors shared his thought as they broke formation, rushing to the action. Ashar moved a foot forward. Stopped.

His brother’s face loomed in his mind. The instructions rang in his mind. He knew he needed to complete them. That was the way to honor. To a name. He wanted to earn a name with honor. Disobeying orders fell from his mind. He closed his eyes and continued to count where he had dropped off. One by one he heard the other unblooded rushing toward the enemies’ camp. Their feet slapped noisily against the ground. He stood straight like a totem. His grip loosened by a fraction. The leather grip of the kukri felt more comfortable in his hand now.

His impatience dissipated. He realized two other unblooded remained with him. Distraction fled. He knew why he had to count now. Focus on the task remained. With slow steps he left the umbrage of the jungle. Measured strides led him to the edge of the camp. His eyes took in the dead bodies. Most of them were enemy soldiers. He recognized one or two of his kinsmen. He headed toward the sound of the fighting. Wended his way through tents made of a thick cloth that now burned unbridled.

Several unblooded were locked in combat before him. He left them to earn their kills. His slunk through the unfamiliar terrain. His eyes scanned for any movement, prepared for a hostile warrior to jump at him from the tents. He spotted Ghost of the Jungle ahead. His brother engaged the white men two at a time. His steps followed the wake of destruction the blooded warriors were making. He knew he could jump into the fight at anytime. His instincts told him to wait. Earlier he might have despaired at the delay. Calm ruled him now. The fracas cleared ahead of him, revealing his brother’s counter part in the foreigner’s army. A grizzled man fighting with ferocity of a cornered elephant bull.  Without thinking his steps guided him toward this ferocious prey. He needed its blood.


Apropos of: Arathania

Side note: I’ve been working 50-60 hours a week at the Day JobTM. That’s the reason why the posts have slowed for the time being. Originally I had wanted to write this section yesterday, but waiting for a couple of hours for a tow truck in the hot, humid Florida afternoon interfered. So here it is, later than I wanted. Next week we’re going to have the conclusion to this arc of fiction. Until then, thanks for reading.

-Crouse

Fresh Meat, Part 3

Ergin glowered dubiously into the shadows the deepened in the jagged tree line that bordered the camp. A wandering buffalo happening upon a large camp of soldiers felt wrong to him. He imagined a herd of buffalo being found along a river, but he knew they were at least a day’s march away from the nearest point of the river they were following south. Those who answered his alarm congratulated the younger watchman on the fresh kill while casting annoyed looks in Ergin’s direction. Looking at all of the men, he noticed he couldn’t place a name to a single face in the crowd. He wondered if all the old timers from when he conscripted were dead or if they had retired. He was old.

The last thought struck him like a bucket full of cold water. Without meaning to, Ergin spent his life fighting a war in foreign lands. The progress the campaign made into said land felt negligible. The value of the conquest diminished more as he weighed it against the things he could have done. Leaving the younger men to the celebrating, he stormed toward the center of the camp. He planned to pack up the small amount of personal effects he had managed to scrape together over the years and head away from the madness he’d spent his life pursuing. He daydreamed about the little village with the noodle shop the army had passed through just after he joined. He remembered the owner’s daughter being quite attractive. He hoped the shop was still there.

Once his belongings were gathered they seemed less than they should. The culmination of his life’s worth sat in a tidy pile on his cot. He stowed them in his rucksack. The night life of the camp dwindled as soldiers headed to their beds. Only disinterested watch keepers and drunkards shambled around the camp. None of them questioned his motive as he passed through, heading the direction the troops had come from with a sack strapped to his back. He decided to stop off by the cooks’ tent. The idea of hunting and foraging for food made him feel tired at this point. He wondered how many gray hairs he actually had on his head. He knew there were more the last time he’d seen his reflection in the river, but now he was thinking an old man’s thoughts.

The camp cooks were all asleep already. They hadn’t even bothered to pack away most of the food. Most of it would be infested or spoiled by morning. He prepared a small amount of victuals to keep him going and left before anyone happened by. Ergin considered skipping off in the morning. He reasoned it might be better to set out well rested. The likelihood of some upstart officer threatening him with a court martial erased the tempting thought of another night in his tent. He set off at a brisk pace, eager to be free from the army and its ineptitude. Just as he reached the edge of the camp, the sound of fighting carried over from where he should be standing watch. Men yelled out alarms. Ergin hesitated.


Apropos of: Arathania

-Crouse

Fresh Meat, Part 2

Ashar waited in the cover of the jungle. Dark river mud covered the majority of his body. Portions already dried out, flaking and cracking over the still damp soil beneath. The buffalo wandered out, but didn’t approach closer to the encampment of foreign soldiers. His knee shook with nerves. He willed the watchmen to come after the bait. His brother placed a hand on Ashar’s shoulder. At a glance his sibling managed to quiet the jitters that had taken Ashar since they left home with the bait.

Ashar focused again on the two men guarding against the unknown in the jungle. Guarding against them. The younger man took aim and shot at the buffalo. The arrow connected with a gut rocking squelch. Only waiting for the two men to come claim their prize remained. Then Ashar and his clan could take out the foolish sentries and ambush the camp later. The laxity of the foreign army never ceased to surprise him. One of the watchers came running to the fallen livestock. The other turned and ran the opposite direction. Ashar’s brother cursed softly.

He hoped the man had only gone off to find the butcher for such a prize as a fatted buffalo. The terse moments of waiting stretched ever longer. He felt each of his waiting clansmen straining their ears. The telltale ringing of an alarm carried over the din of the amassed soldiers. With jaguar like grace, he and the other warriors melted a good distance back into the trees before scaling to the lower canopy. If the foreigners decided to search the jungle for the source of the animal that had been delivered to them, they would find only ambush from above. It meant more waiting.

Shouting and more bells carried with the wind into the canopy. If Ashar listened close enough he could hear some inept bungling at the very edge of the jungle, but no white skinned men ventured within his view. He could hear shouting. It sounded angry to him. he wished he understood the tongue they spoke in. It seemed the only language common to both Ashar’s people and these invading soldiers was violence. Something brushed against his shoulder.

Ashar shifted with surprise. His kukri half raised in unconscious response to a perceived threat before he realized his brother managed to move from a neighboring tree without being heard. He marveled at the appropriateness of his brother’s warrior name, Ghost of the Jungle. He felt keenly the lack of his own warrior name in that moment. Silently he prayed that their contingent would remain and still attempt the ambush. He acknowledged his brother’s silent indication that they were going to stay put and wait until the clamor caused by the buffalo calmed down. He watched his brother’s fluid motions as he moved to confirm with the other warriors. As Ashar perched in a squat on the vine as thick as his own torso his legs ached. They ached to match his thirst for his first blooding.


Apropos of: Arathania

-Crouse

Fresh Meat

Nobody warned the recruits that one type of flesh being seared by flames smells much like any other meat cooking over an open fire. Ergin always laughed at the uneasy looks new recruits would cast on their mutton after the company had burnt a village down. Out of all the unspeakable acts they committed, the thought of eating another persons flesh still gave pause. Ergin didn’t know if that meant there was hope for humanity or not. He stalked away from the mess pit with a leg in one hand and a flagon in the other.

He hated sitting with the grunts. None of them paid any respect to the veterans of the King’s campaign. He’d trounced through leagues of Argan jungle fighting off the giant man eating cats and natives alike. The bright eyed upstarts from home thought they would win the war single handed. The memory of his start with the company drifted to his mind. It taunted him. Reminded him the recruits were not much different from himself.

“Not much different if they survive, at any rate.” He muttered to himself, drawing questioning looks from several green soldiers making their bed for the night. He laughed at the puzzling looks he drew, taking a large swig from his flagon and making his way to the watch post. It sat on the edge of the camp, just far enough away from the jungle that alarms could be raised if the people they were trying to conquer decided to attack in the night. A rookie soldier sat there, eyeing the dark between the large draping leaves.

Ergin thumped him on the back, eliciting a startled jump.

“See something out there, boy?” he asked.

“No, sir.” The recruit responded with a crisp salute.

“Put your hand down, you idiot. I’m a sergeant. Not some pompous officer that expects every groveling grunt in the damned company to salute to him.” Ergin snapped out the words in a quiet hiss and settled down for the watch. The encroaching darkness dampened the heat very little. Ergin noticed that the soldier next to him had rivulets of sweat streaming down him and felt the same perspiration afflicting his own face. He took a deep drink from his flagon and proffered it to the recruit who accepted it thankfully and took large gulps of the fresh water.

“I would have thought you’d have wine in there.” The younger man said without an attempt to hide his disappointment.

“Wine gets you drunk and only makes the heat out here worse.” Ergin replied. His lip curled in a sneer as he added, “It’ll also get you dead.”

The recruits attention had already left Ergin. His flagon thumped on the ground and the young soldier knocked an arrow. The man drew and loosed the shaft before Ergin managed to inhale before speaking. His eyes followed the flight of the projectile as it hit a buffalo square in the eye.

“Fresh meat!” The man said, turning to grin at Ergin. He dropped his bow and ran off to butcher his score. Ergin ran to sound the alarm.


Apropos of: Arathania

-Crouse

The Slaughtered Calf, Part 2

Corin swayed in his seat. He glanced at the man who had alternated buying rounds with him for the better part of the day. He thought Garl about as ugly as a man could be without the mother abandoning the baby in the wilderness. He turned around to survey the now bustling common room of the Slaughtered Calf. Townsfolk from Graffe filled in the gaps where a see of blue and dark yellow cloaks now mingled side by side. Only one brawl had broken out all day, and that was between two soldiers from the Republic accusing each other of cheating at cards. He chuckled as he remembered Garl stomping away from the bar to clout to two men and toss them out into the street. He turned to his new friend and asked, “Another round?” Garl drained the remains of his cup and gestured the barkeep in response.

Corin knew why he was getting drunk at the bar today. A lifetime of military service set to end with an honorable discharge. The treaty that had led to the end of conflict with the Republic specified that both nations scale down their standing armies to a mere fraction of what they were. Two of the three soldiers he arrived at the bar with this morning would be returning to work their family farms. The other was overjoyed to be returning to his job as a clerk at the capitol. Corin never picked up a trade other than warfare. He sighed as reality cut through the drunken stupor he attempted to mask it with.

“What do you intend to do, Garl?” he asked. The short, bald man next to him shrugged, nursing the ale that they had switched to after the first cask of Ogre’s Spit. “I’ve got a commendation to look forward to.” Corin continued.  “After that…” He waved his hand in the air. He meant to indicate the open possibilities of the future. Garl sighed as if he understood the truth that lay behind the gesture.

“Least you’ll get a shiny medal.” The man said, slurring throughout. “Luckiest I’ll be is playing guard for some merchant scared of all the men like me who are gonna turn to banditry.” He spat to punctuate just what he thought of his luck at such forthcoming opportunities. Corin scratched the stubble on his jaw. Mercenary work sounded much better than begging for a job working as a stable hand to him.

“You ever consider going into business for yourself?” he asked his drinking companion. Garl narrowed his eyes. Corin could see the man’s mind working to encompass this new concept.

“You mean, starting my own crew? Pah, banditry don’t pay near enough.” The man hocked up a glob of phlegm and added it to the floor. Corin rolled his eyes. The wagon had stopped short of its destination.

“No, I mean…stopping bandits. Two men good with a sword and with a firm grasp of both countries could make a fair purse rooting out bandits before they even have a chance to attack merchants.” He said. He hoped Garl could see where he was leading him now.

“What’s the difference between that and signin’ up with a caravan?” Garl asked, looking at him sideways. Corin thought the man seemed more open to his proposition now.

“We wouldn’t have to travel with them for one. I suspect we could charge more for our services as well, once a reputation is built. We wouldn’t even have to limit ourselves to bandits. We could deal with the goblins that spring up in the north of the Empire from time to time. Travel both countries. See things far from this boring little border.” Corin was prepared to go on but Garl had put up a hand to slow Corin’s speech.

“We could still drop in here for Ogre’s Spit when we wanted though, right?” He asked. The look on his face explained that his willingness to join such a venture hinged entirely on this one point.

“That’s what I’m trying to say.” Corin said with a smile. “We’d write our own dispatches. No more officers telling us which part of the land to guard. We’d make our own rules. And do what we do best.” He found himself looking up with pride as he finished his spiel. Turning to gauge Garl’s interest caused his grin to go flat. The soldier of the Republic had fallen asleep right at the bar. He pulled out the sheaf with his final dispatch from the capitol and managed to draw a rudimentary map on it with some charcoal the barkeep loaned him. He settled up the remainder of the tab he and Garl had accrued and left. If he was lucky, the other man would meet him midday tomorrow.


Apropos of: The Slaughtered Calf

-Crouse

The Slaughtered Calf

The Slaughtered Calf had traditionally been the drinking establishment of choice of which ever nation occupied the border town of Graffe. Originally, a wooden sign of a calf painted gold had adorned the front of the building. During one of the many shifts of national control over the city, the calf lost its head. The Gilt Calf turned into the Slaughtered Calf. This suited the soldiers just fine. Over time, multiple soldiers deep in their cups found themselves dispatched by men from the other nation who took the city in the night. A visitor to Graffe could always tell which nation held it by the regimental banner hanging outside the door.

On the armistice day, both the blue banner of the Empire and the gold banner of the Republic fluttered in the midsummer breeze. Garl sat at the bar, seven tankards in. Three of his squad mates threw dice at a nearby table.They luxuriated in their first chance to visit the Slaughtered Calf in months. Garl waited patiently for the barkeep to haul up a fresh cask of Ogre Spit. His squad’s laughter died as the door to the bar banged open flooding the room with afternoon light. The barkeep, pony keg securely ensconced in his arms, entered the room and immediately dropped the precious liquid on the floor. The crack of wood and sloshing of liquid filled the silence that accompanied the new arrivals. The barkeep cursed. Garl spared a glance over his shoulder to see who had delayed the enjoyment of his favorite beverage.

A squad of blue cloaks stood glowering at the occupants of the room. A tall man with a shaved head and a puckered scar running from his temple to just past his ear pushed past his comrades to enter. Garl whistled low and to himself with appreciation. The thorn in the side of the 6th Company of the Grand Republic had just walked through the door. Garl wanted to kill Corin more than he wanted to taste Ogre Spit again. He savored the satisfaction of his daydream before the reality of the inevitably resultant court marshal quashed his thoughts.

“A round of your finest ale for my men, Horace. And one for our new, peaceful neighbors from the east. And a flagon of Ogre Spit for myself.” Corin called out as he made his way to the bar, taking a seat two away from Garl. The rest of the blue cloaks shuffled in and set up around the dart board, well apart from Garl’s friends. Horace muttered something indistinct to himself in the surliest manner before barking out, “Don’t break anything!” He then called into the kitchen, “Martha, six ales. I got to get another cask of Ogre Spit.” The barkeep then disappeared down into the cellar.

Before tensions rose up between the dice players and the dart throwers, the barkeep’s wife came out with six tankards with too much foam on the head and hastily served them to the men before returning to the recesses of the kitchen. Garl grunted with displeasure and began spinning an Imperial Talent on the bar.

“Queer. Isn’t it.” Corin spoke to him. Garl grunted without conviction. Corin sidled over to the seat next to him.

“It’s Garl, not Kweer.” Garl said. He slapped the coin down revealing the face of the Empress. He spun it again and it wobbled until it landed on the face of the Emperor. Corin, not dissuaded by Garl’s less than plesant demeanor, smiled and pulled out one of the blue paper notes of the Republic.

“I know you Garl. Those soldiers at the darts have cursed your name more often than not. I just mean it’s strange. This peace.” The imperial held the paper note in between his hands. It bore the marks of multiple transactions. The corners appeared frayed and the ink indicating it as a single note rubbed off to the point of near illegibility. Garl grunted again. Corin continued, “I mean, if this were yesterday, we’d all be trying to kill each other. But here we are, we’ve each got money that’s really only valuable in this town and the other’s nation. We’ve both got reputations and-”

“And we’re both waiting for our fuckin’ Ogre Spit,” Garl interrupted. As if summoned, the barkeep thumped back into the room, another keg of the liquor in his possession. His eyebrows raised in surprise that no one had killed anyone else. Settling the keg behind the bar, he tapped it and filled two tankards with a more than generous proportion of the viscous fluid before placing them in front of Garl and Corin.

Both men took a deep draught of the strong alcohol. They exchanged looks out of the corner of their eyes. Garl began to gulp his down in larger swallows. Corin followed suit. Both Garl and Corin slammed their empty mugs down on the bar top and gasped for air at the same time. Their men looked up from their respective pursuits; one or two of them placed a hand on their weapons. Any concern of a struggle vanished at once when both of the haggard veterans began to laugh.

“Aye, it’s queer, Corin, drinking with a man you called enemy, but I’ll be thrice-damned if I don’t respect a man who can down Ogre Spit like that,” Garl said. A grin split his face and he offered his hand out to the opposing sergeant. A small smirk played at the corner of Corin’s mouth and reached out. The men shook hands, and Garl turned back to the barkeep, “Horace, another Ogre Spit for me and me friend here!”


Apropos of: This Prompt

-Crouse