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The warmth of the fire was comforting. The way its invisible tendrils licked up his grime covered face to culminate on his brow, forming spots where sweat threatened to run against the pleasingly warm streams. He sat there on that timber bench, open legged and slouched slightly forward looking into the small flaming pit. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest; pulled, stretched and strained beyond their capabilities and aching in response. To say he did not notice the pain would be to tell a lie, he was well aware he was close to spent and with good reason. A day stalking and skulking inside a goblin infested rat hole like some filthy dwarf is enough to take the spirit from even the most hardened warrior.
Thoughts of living a life underground curled his lip and he quickly reached for his hatchet, noting with distain the small slit an arrowhead had punched through his chainmail and into his gut. He grimaced and fingered the jagged, red stained edges that now embodied the latest repair he would have to attend too.
Still the battle had not been a complete waste of time. His eyes wandered over the breasts and mid section of his latest companion. Her dark skin told him that she was of southern birth, though her name was not. Not that her name mattered to him, only that her manner was pleasing to his ear and her body pleasing to his eye, and, of course she did not slow him down. He felt desire race through his veins as he took another look at her.
He fidgeted and his hand found the remains of what once must have been a sleeve of a fine gentleman’s garment, now tattered and stained beyond all hope of salvation; he began cleaning the hatchets proud looking head. He found the work soothing and in a spiritual way considered it a necessary bond that needed to be formed between a warrior and his weapons. He flicked of a piece of sickly green flesh and watch as it landed in-between two blades of grass. . .
He looked to his left and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he saw the wolfish grin from Martok. The head signal was unmistakable and he trained his eyes to the intended location. Even lying flat on his stomach, covered in the tall grass of the small cleft he could easily make out the prize.
The caravan sluggishly crawled along the road, its guards blissfully unaware of the danger that stalked them like a pack of starving wolves circling their prey. He thought it disgusting that they were so complacent, so self assured of their security. He spotted a wagon and heard the unmistakable laugh of several women and men – no doubt sprawled out on cushions with overflowing goblets of wine and plumes of demon smoke floating around their heads. The people of the cities; they never changed, they have different skins and different faces but they were all the same.
His contempt was cut short and his legs and arms moved by themselves as he sprung to his feet and raced towards his victims. The battle cry of his tribesmen thundering and threatening to swallow his own. He felt energy and excitement course through his body as he charged towards the scrambling defence of the caravan. He would soon feel the sickening crack of his weapon as it rendered flesh and dug into the bones of his first enemy. But not yet, not before he got rid of his spear. He stretched out and prepared to take a series of elongated strides.
One.
He raised the spear to his shoulder.
Two.
He took aim. To him it did not matter what he hit, he would throw it into the most densely clustered group of people. If he hit a guard the Elk favoured him.
Three.
His foot hit the ground and he tossed the spear, his arm threatening to fly with the primitive missile as he sent it hurtling towards the intended kill zone. He had no time to watch if he was successful or not. He fixed eyes with his most immediate threat. A dried out looking beanstalk of a man in a well kept ox hide padded jerkin. He sent his axe crashing down on the man’s sword and the thrill over took him.
Hack. Slash. He had lost count of the men he had faced. The small pieces of clarity that one finds on the battlefield when locked with a single foe. Three, perhaps four such moments? He felt the salty kiss of blood spray from a freshly severed limb and this brought him back to the moment. His vision cleared and he snarled at the man and beat his chest, his arms outstretched – a gore encrusted flail in one hand and his axe in the other. His victim hopelessly tried to dam the flow of life essence from the mauled stump that had once been his sword arm. Pathetic he thought. Not worthy of a man’s death.
He pushed the quivering form aside and made for his prize. The wagon of laughter now a den of screaming women and the hurried prayers of cowering men. He tried the small wooden door. A new furore of panicked screams erupting even though the latch did no yield to his whim. He did not have time to engage his frustrations at being presented with yet another obstacle, as an inept lunge was made at him from atop the wagon. He turned and caught the blade deep in his left arm. He snarled and grabbed the arm of his assailant; a foppish, lard chinned, fat man clothed in purple silks. He aptly brought the fat man low and sneered as his primal cunning worked its wonders.
It had only taken a score, or perhaps a score and a half, of strikes from the fat man’s head against the wagons solid little door to make a hole. He knew that either the man’s neck or skull had given way after the fourth, he had felt the buckle, but that was of little concern. Before all of his prey realized what was happening and escaped out the door opposite to the one he was entering, he grabbed a fist full of soft golden hair. The wench screamed. He did not care and confirmed his control by twisting her hair once more around his hand and yanking her out of the wagon.
“Did she bite you Hardak?”
Martok’s smirking face and accusing point towards his wound was not enough to dissuade him from checking his axe rather than stopping to exchange merriment. He yanked her again, dragging her over the human battering ram and through the bloodstained dirt. He looked around. The raid was over. The death moans of the wounded and the screams of the unlucky survivors were the only things to be heard. He looked up again into the inquisitive eyes of Martok. . .
“What are you looking at?” The challenging tone he injected into his voice was clear and he was now painfully aware that a large man beyond the fire was looking at him – starring at him. He had to respond to him in that way. Even though his muscles ached he stood and assessed the threat. He would face it like a man. He bit his axe into the bench and threw down the bloodied cleaning rag.
“Is it really necessary to attack the furniture?”
He gazed at the man. He was no risk. He had known men like this before, at home in the coldest places of the North. Happy to lie between the Ice Maidens legs. Let him. He preferred warm blooded wenches in his cot.
He unstrapped his armour and let it drop behind him, no care for exposing the others to his scarred and well formed torso. What of this elf that spoke out at him – his way and his mannerisms? He looked at her, contempt curling his lip. Hooded and frail wizard’s whore. He would offer her no time, and were he in the North. . .He pushed the thoughts away as easily as he slipped into his rough hide tunic.
He sat back down and levered his axe free and set about cleaning it once again, vaguely aware of some water blood fool spouting city talk of the North. Like he knew the wilds. Like he understood the untamed and free North.
He looked once again at the dark skinned lass he had met earlier, before turning towards the fire and yet again to the proud head of his axe, and the tattered state of the cleaning rag.
Thoughts of living a life underground curled his lip and he quickly reached for his hatchet, noting with distain the small slit an arrowhead had punched through his chainmail and into his gut. He grimaced and fingered the jagged, red stained edges that now embodied the latest repair he would have to attend too.
Still the battle had not been a complete waste of time. His eyes wandered over the breasts and mid section of his latest companion. Her dark skin told him that she was of southern birth, though her name was not. Not that her name mattered to him, only that her manner was pleasing to his ear and her body pleasing to his eye, and, of course she did not slow him down. He felt desire race through his veins as he took another look at her.
He fidgeted and his hand found the remains of what once must have been a sleeve of a fine gentleman’s garment, now tattered and stained beyond all hope of salvation; he began cleaning the hatchets proud looking head. He found the work soothing and in a spiritual way considered it a necessary bond that needed to be formed between a warrior and his weapons. He flicked of a piece of sickly green flesh and watch as it landed in-between two blades of grass. . .
He looked to his left and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he saw the wolfish grin from Martok. The head signal was unmistakable and he trained his eyes to the intended location. Even lying flat on his stomach, covered in the tall grass of the small cleft he could easily make out the prize.
The caravan sluggishly crawled along the road, its guards blissfully unaware of the danger that stalked them like a pack of starving wolves circling their prey. He thought it disgusting that they were so complacent, so self assured of their security. He spotted a wagon and heard the unmistakable laugh of several women and men – no doubt sprawled out on cushions with overflowing goblets of wine and plumes of demon smoke floating around their heads. The people of the cities; they never changed, they have different skins and different faces but they were all the same.
His contempt was cut short and his legs and arms moved by themselves as he sprung to his feet and raced towards his victims. The battle cry of his tribesmen thundering and threatening to swallow his own. He felt energy and excitement course through his body as he charged towards the scrambling defence of the caravan. He would soon feel the sickening crack of his weapon as it rendered flesh and dug into the bones of his first enemy. But not yet, not before he got rid of his spear. He stretched out and prepared to take a series of elongated strides.
One.
He raised the spear to his shoulder.
Two.
He took aim. To him it did not matter what he hit, he would throw it into the most densely clustered group of people. If he hit a guard the Elk favoured him.
Three.
His foot hit the ground and he tossed the spear, his arm threatening to fly with the primitive missile as he sent it hurtling towards the intended kill zone. He had no time to watch if he was successful or not. He fixed eyes with his most immediate threat. A dried out looking beanstalk of a man in a well kept ox hide padded jerkin. He sent his axe crashing down on the man’s sword and the thrill over took him.
Hack. Slash. He had lost count of the men he had faced. The small pieces of clarity that one finds on the battlefield when locked with a single foe. Three, perhaps four such moments? He felt the salty kiss of blood spray from a freshly severed limb and this brought him back to the moment. His vision cleared and he snarled at the man and beat his chest, his arms outstretched – a gore encrusted flail in one hand and his axe in the other. His victim hopelessly tried to dam the flow of life essence from the mauled stump that had once been his sword arm. Pathetic he thought. Not worthy of a man’s death.
He pushed the quivering form aside and made for his prize. The wagon of laughter now a den of screaming women and the hurried prayers of cowering men. He tried the small wooden door. A new furore of panicked screams erupting even though the latch did no yield to his whim. He did not have time to engage his frustrations at being presented with yet another obstacle, as an inept lunge was made at him from atop the wagon. He turned and caught the blade deep in his left arm. He snarled and grabbed the arm of his assailant; a foppish, lard chinned, fat man clothed in purple silks. He aptly brought the fat man low and sneered as his primal cunning worked its wonders.
It had only taken a score, or perhaps a score and a half, of strikes from the fat man’s head against the wagons solid little door to make a hole. He knew that either the man’s neck or skull had given way after the fourth, he had felt the buckle, but that was of little concern. Before all of his prey realized what was happening and escaped out the door opposite to the one he was entering, he grabbed a fist full of soft golden hair. The wench screamed. He did not care and confirmed his control by twisting her hair once more around his hand and yanking her out of the wagon.
“Did she bite you Hardak?”
Martok’s smirking face and accusing point towards his wound was not enough to dissuade him from checking his axe rather than stopping to exchange merriment. He yanked her again, dragging her over the human battering ram and through the bloodstained dirt. He looked around. The raid was over. The death moans of the wounded and the screams of the unlucky survivors were the only things to be heard. He looked up again into the inquisitive eyes of Martok. . .
“What are you looking at?” The challenging tone he injected into his voice was clear and he was now painfully aware that a large man beyond the fire was looking at him – starring at him. He had to respond to him in that way. Even though his muscles ached he stood and assessed the threat. He would face it like a man. He bit his axe into the bench and threw down the bloodied cleaning rag.
“Is it really necessary to attack the furniture?”
He gazed at the man. He was no risk. He had known men like this before, at home in the coldest places of the North. Happy to lie between the Ice Maidens legs. Let him. He preferred warm blooded wenches in his cot.
He unstrapped his armour and let it drop behind him, no care for exposing the others to his scarred and well formed torso. What of this elf that spoke out at him – his way and his mannerisms? He looked at her, contempt curling his lip. Hooded and frail wizard’s whore. He would offer her no time, and were he in the North. . .He pushed the thoughts away as easily as he slipped into his rough hide tunic.
He sat back down and levered his axe free and set about cleaning it once again, vaguely aware of some water blood fool spouting city talk of the North. Like he knew the wilds. Like he understood the untamed and free North.
He looked once again at the dark skinned lass he had met earlier, before turning towards the fire and yet again to the proud head of his axe, and the tattered state of the cleaning rag.