Battle Weary

1

Dawn was slow in breaking that day, for a dense cloud of gray fog smothered the earth like a kidnapper from the Clan of Dirlech covering the mouth of the target.  Still, the camp was bustling with activity, as The Day was approaching.  The village elders had talked about The Day for as long as any living soul could remember.  According to the prophecy, a strange man from a land unknown would come to save the land.  About eighty goat-hide tents stood in groups throughout the clearing.  At the center of each tent circle roared a fire, which was used by the groups of would be soldiers to heat up breakfast at that hour.2

Near the center of the camp stood Bjorg Vijere.  Standing at a towering height, nearly six feet, six inches tall, he soared over the other campers by almost half a foot.  Originally from a distant land, Bjorg relocated to the village as a young man and set up a blacksmith shop.  Little was known about his past.  Some village gossipers thought he was one of the many great warriors from the Southern Kingdoms, while others swore he was banished from his homeland in the north.  3

Whatever his past, every last one of the townsfolk agreed on one point- his nickname, Bjorg the Bull.  Bjorg was huge, muscles rippled beneath his leather smithy apron.  Eyes as dark as pitch shone with an inner knowledge, and numerous scars crossing his dark walnut body gave him the look of a man who had seen much not fit for the eyes of a lesser being.  Slow precision ruled all Bjorg’s tasks.  He never spoke more than what was required to make his point, and his speech, though seldom heard, rang with the accent of his motherland.4

Just as the crow cawed daybreak, Bjorg Vijere made his way through the ranks, calling an assembly.  At the sound of his voice, every man and woman in the camp became alert.  To them, Bjorg was a source of strength and hope in the small community.  He had plans, big plans, plans that would undoubtedly end in chaos and destruction.5

“Alright!  E’ery one divide inta yer groups!” Bjorg bellowed as he made his way to a small platform near his tent.  “Half o’ ye, ‘ead off inta the for’st wit’ Jarulf.  The rest o’ ye, go wit’ Jeremiah.”6

Bjorg stared into the distance as the would-be soldiers trooped off.  As the last man disappeared into the dense forest, Bjorg quickly looked around for any stragglers or possible enemies, lifted his tent flap, and stepped inside.  Bjorg’s private tent, ten feet square, held his hay cot against one side, a small rough hewn pine table in the middle, and two straight back chairs positioned at the table.  A weapon chest stood right inside the flap.7

A man sat completely immobile in the chair facing the flap, the only movement was his eyes, which followed every step of Bjorg on his way to his seat.8

“Ah, Ragmorth, how good o’ ye ta come,” greeted Bjorg politely.9

“Yes, I have come.” Ragmorth’s voice was a dull monotone much like the moan of those who have given up all hope.  He was not physically attractive either.  His frame reached almost to that of Bjorg’s, but there the resemblance ended.  Less than a third of Bjorg’s weight, Ragmorth was thin, even anorexic, and paler than the moon.  His long bony fingers always grasped his dagger, and among those who lived, he was known to have the greatest reflexes of all who dared challenge him.  His gaunt face and tightly pursed lips showed he feared nothing.  Greasy black hair hung to Ragmorth’s shoulders, brushing against the human skull attached to the left shoulder of his black studded-leather armor.  He was one of the few people Bjorg feared.10

“I have a proposition fer ye, Ragmorth,” began Bjorg, avoiding contact with Ragmorth’s piercing blue eyes.  “I’ll put it bluntly.  We’re plannin’ ta overthrow the Dark Power, and we need yer…uh…unique skills.”11

“And if I agree to assist you?”12

“Part o’ the profits, o’ course, and an end ta the pers’cution o’ yer people.”13

“Agreed. I shall however, need an assistant to help me in my labors,”  Ragmorth replied at a leisurely pace, pale blue smoke trailed through the air around his slowly circling index finger.14

* * *15

Their discussion lasted a full five hours, nearing noon.  Tired of Ragmorth’s haunting voice, Bjorg promised to find a suitable assistant and agreed to a payment before he quickly excused himself.  Once out in the open, he scanned the camp and was happy to discover that one of the groups had returned from training to prepare the midday meal.16

Again on his speaking platform, Bjorg called out to his rebel horde, “I’m lookin’ fer a brave man, ‘fraid neither o’ life, no’ death, who is willin’ ta fight down his queasiness ta help the cause.”17

At the same time that two-dozen men stepped forward proclaiming their bravery, Ragmorth seemed to materialize at Bjorg’s side.  Instantly the masses began to murmur nervously, and several men shamefully reclaimed their places in the crowd.  One man, a mousy boy really, moved toward the miniature stage.  Bjorg knew the boy was Elzix, a young man who spent much of his time reading, a skill Bjorg himself had taught the boy.  Elzix preferred reading of far off lands rather than helping his father tend the animals on his small farm.18

Elzix again approached the platform, directing his speech to Ragmorth, “I would be honored to be your assistant, for I have studied much and now know a great deal about Necromancers.”  19

At his last word, the crowed stepped back, for Necromancy was a forbidden Dark Magic.  Whispering accompanied that sound of shuffling feet as the people of the revolt began to talk amongst themselves again, until Bjorg silenced them. “It is true that Ragmorth prac’ces Necromancy, but keep yer comments to yerselves.”  He redirected his gaze to Elzix, who just stared back.20

“How do you know of my…profession?” inquired Ragmorth as he walked to Elzix and began circling him.21

Elzix, nervous now, stuttered, “I...I read about a Necromancer clan a short time ago, a….an…and when Bjorg said ‘life nor death,’ I…I knew.”22

Ragmorth made an inquisitive face and strode off, Elzix at his heels.23

* * *24

By sunset the day’s training ended and the farmers-turned-soldiers returned to camp for their final meal of the day and socialization.  As the stew was being passed around, a sentry sounded the alarm.  Bjorg unsheathed Plague Hex, his self-made modified broadsword, and charged in the direction of the sounded alarm pulling a buckler out of a man’s hands on the way, slowing as he reached the edge of camp.  Seeing no foe, Bjorg muttered profanities under his breath and swore he would train the sentries better.  Turning back to camp, Bjorg heard a slight rustle of leaves as a body streaked through the air and landed on top of him, smiling.  25

“You should watch you back, brother,” said Bjorg’s sister, the attacker.  Kethryes was tall like her brother and muscular as well, but with the more refined shape of an archer, her true passion.  Most men considered her beautiful in a slightly masculine way, which reflected her upbringing.  Her long, dark brown hair reached midway down her back when let free of its restrictive bun and her thin lips shone with a smile that her brilliant green eyes readily replicated.  Still laughing, she retrieved her bow and quiver from her hiding spot before leading the way back to camp.  Bjorg slowly followed as he regained his breath, upset that his sister was able to outsmart him again.26

They walked back to Bjorg’s tent in the center of camp.  Many men who had not seen women for many months whistled at Kethryes, but she acknowledged them only with a glance that pierced deeper than any arrow.  Back at the fire with Ragmorth, Elzix, and the makeshift captains, Bjorg introduced Kethryes to the group and handed her a wooden bowl filled with the night’s meal of stew.  Over their meal, the rebels discussed their plan of attack.27

“My archers shall arrive at dawn tomorrow,” said Kethryes between mouthfuls.  “A full fifty strong, all of them trained with the longbow and a melee weapon, most of them use spears just as well as their bows.”28

“Wonderful! ‘ey can volley o’er my troops’ ‘eads,” mumbled Bjorg excitedly, food spraying from his fully packed mouth.29

“You plan on a frontal attack, I presume,” interrupted Ragmorth, bored.30

“Ya, what else would you have me do?” 31

“I see no need for change.  Let the living take the glory.  As you blunder forth, spreading death in your wake, I shall follow behind.” Ragmorth swirled up a cloud of his signature blue smoke suggestively.32

* * *33

Just as promised, fifty archers marched into camp, singing a battle hymn, the last sound many opponents would ever hear, for the Amazonian archers never let up their song in battle.  They marched in two rows of twenty-five with practiced precision, bows strapped to their backs and their melee weapon of choice, a spear for most, held in hand and perched against their right shoulders like a mass of moving trees.  The dawn procession continued directly to the camp center where they arranged themselves silently in rows in a half circle across the fire from Bjorg.  All at once they slammed the butts of their spears into the trampled earth, startling Bjorg, who looked up.34

A wide grin spread over Bjorg’s usually straight face.  “Welcome, friends ta this quaint camp o’ ours.  Ye can set up yer tents o’er by there,” exclaimed Bjorg, pointing to a clearing near the edge of the camp.35

All at once the Amazons took up their hymn, gradually reaching to a rumbling volume before abruptly stopping. Again in unison, the archers hefted their spears and strode in orderly rows over to the clearing, where Kethryes’ tent was pitched by a small fire.  Kethryes emerged from her portable abode, set her faithful warriors to their tasks, and meandered among the camp until she reached Bjorg’s tent for a briefing session with her brother and Ragmorth.36

* * *37

Another dark dawn approached to another bustle of activity, for this day was to be the deciding Day.  The better trained chefs among the warriors prepared what would be the last meal for many, while others sharpened weapons, while still more milled about nervously.  A blanket of fear and rage smothered the camp, creating an unearthly silence.  Commands echoed across the camp and the full army assembled their gear and clanked over to the edge of the camp, where Bjorg, Kethryes, and Ragmorth were standing on a large pitted boulder flattened out for use as a podium.38

Clearing his throat, Bjorg began his short speech. “Taday is The Day o’ the proph’sy.  Each and e’ery one o’ ye ‘as trained long and ‘ard fer this o’ all days.  Our freedom awaits us!  Be brave, fight ‘ard and destroy!” Bjorg ended amid a tremendous cheer from his trusting comrades-in-arms.39

* * *40

The rebelling army materialized from the dense forest with nary a sound, gleaming weapons directed at the armies surrounding the castle the Dark One called home.  The line spread across the forest’s edge, melee fighters in front, and the fifty-one Amazons behind, bows taught and ready.  Bjorg and Ragmorth, dead center in the line, glanced at each other and nodded.  Ragmorth sent out a single blue spark twenty feet into the air.  All at once there was chaos.  Bjorg bellowed a tremendous battle cry, slashing the sky with Plague Hex.  The Amazons again brought their song to a feverous pitch, and the soldiers clashed sword and shield.  Ragmorth, with a sly smile on his ghostly face, sent a barrage of sparks through the thick morning fog as the skull on his shoulder seemed to smile itself.  The amazing show stunned the opposing armies, giving the fighters an advantage as they charged, keeping up their battle cries.41

The armies crashed with the force of two rampaging elephants, sending weapons and shields swirling into the air.  The sound of metal against metal permeated the air even through the muffling fog.  Melee fighters slammed against each other with swords, maces, and axes the size of men while the Amazons volleyed quickly over the heads of their comrades, slaying many of the Dark Army.  All at once the archers depleted their arrow supply and sang out a high pitched noise.  Reaching behind them, they tore their spears from the ground where they rested, aimed them strait ahead, and streamed down the hill to help the others. 42

Bodies soon littered the field, and Ragmorth moved in, swirling his smoke around himself, seemingly invisible to the evil hordes.  His murmuring increased as he spread the fingers of his right hand and slowly moved his hand over the fresh corpse.  Twitching once, Ragmorth’s fingers spread a blue-grey smoke which flowed into the cadaver. Ragmorth slowly elevated his hand, and the battered body followed his lead.  Swiftly dropping his hand, Ragmorth freed the zombie, who immediately retrieved his battle gear and charged into the Dark Army, his comrades from his living days.  The few warriors nearby who were not engaged in a life or death struggle gasped.  Reanimating both friend and foe, Ragmorth’s army of the living dead grew and added to the power of the hundreds of people fighting for freedom.43

* * *44

Slashing left and right, Bjorg made his way to the huge castle, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.  Reaching the open castle gate, Bjorg walked inside with no fear of attack, for all of the Dark Soldiers battled his own.  Knowing that his target would be watching the battle unfold from the highest tower, Bjorg charged through the courtyard toward the menacing shape of the black tower.  Bursting through the reinforced wooden door, Bjorg found himself in a huge hall with a roaring fire in the center and a single exit, a spiral stairway in the back corner of the cavernous space.  45

He started for the stairs, only to find a group of soldiers left behind to guard their master blocking his way.  Grinning from ear to dirt covered ear, Bjorg bowed to his opponents and charged, head down as a bull would, Plague Hex slashing madly.  The three men in front of him stared in awe rather than fleeing and were cut down, dark red blood flinging across the expansive room before the guards crumpled into an unrecognizable heap.  Bjorg wiped off much of the blood from his slippery sword onto the body nearest him and took off for the stairs. 46

The steep stone steps seemed to soar skyward for all eternity.  Finally reached the small landing at the top, Bjorg found himself face to face with a murderous beast.  Stepping back in shock, Bjorg realized that the beast was carved into a door blocking his path.  Bjorg cautiously opened the heavy oak door and slipped inside, blood encrusted sword still grasped tightly in front of him.  He crept through the immense chamber, footfalls making no sound.  The entire room was black marble, from the brightly polished floor all the way to the high vaulted ceilings.  Rough-finished Roman columns ran in two rows down the sides of the room, a fourth the width of the chamber from the walls, met with half columns standing against the walls to create a support arch across the ceiling.  At the end of the room sat a man on an ornate black throne, seemingly asleep.  This’ll make my task easier, thought Bjorg, grinning inwardly.47

Suddenly the man stood, surprising Bjorg. The man’s pure white hair perfectly framed what would have been a handsome face if the startlingly blue eyes did not glow with the hatred of hundreds of demons.  A flowing black cloak covered his tall frame, and a crown of human finger bones sat atop his head.  Stepping forward, the force known only as Baal, Lord of Destruction began to change.  His muscles bulged as scales the color of the marble spread across his flesh.  Long spikes shot through the back of his robes, and his teeth grew into fangs to fill his serpent-like mouth.  Soon the man was gone and in his place stood a monster of bulging proportions, tail swishing with malice.48

The beast shot its hands forward and a roaring blast of hot wind sent Bjorg soaring across the huge room.  With a sickening thud, his battle-worn body slammed against the jagged stone of a support pillar, shredding his flesh. Baal strode forward with a reptilian smirk, dark slit eyes focused on Bjorg’s pained face.  A low moan managed to escape his lips amid a shower of saliva-thinned blood as Bjorg struggled to raise his battered face to the enemy.  Gathering what little strength remained, Bjorg spoke his final words, “Ye shall…ne’er win…Elio.”49

At the sound of his given name, Baal again moved nearer, emitting a loathsome hiss that changed to a guttural laughter as his vocal cords reformed into the hominid design.  Fully human again, Baal pulled Bjorg’s sword from his weakened grasp, brought the needle sharp point to Bjorg’s chest, and plunged it deep inside the chest cavity, finishing his deed, happy with his quick victory.50

* * *51

The moment Baal turned his back, a body flew through the room with only the whisper of wind as a warning and plowed into his back with enough force to send him flailing to the now blood stained floor accompanied by a thud that echoed around the chamber.  Panting from the run up the stairs, Kethryes glared down at Baal from her perch on his chest with poisonous eyes.  His surety that he would never be defeated waned as Kethryes unsheathed her dagger and leisurely shoved it into his stomach and through his back, leaving a deep scar in the floor.  Twisting the dagger once and enjoying the pain it caused her foe; Kethryes pulled out the slippery weapon and slowly pressed the blade into Baal’s neck until she drew blood.  It was enough to stun him.  With the help of Ragmorth, who followed her up the stairs to watch the spectacle he knew was to come, Kethryes tied Baal to one of the pillars with his own robes.52

Kneeling over Bjorg, Ragmorth probed and inspected the wounds and stood, a dire expression crossing his brow.  Summoning as much power as his body could contain, he spread his fingers for the uncountable hundredth time that day.  Moving nearer to his recently slain friend, Ragmorth pressed his icy fingers to Bjorg’s head and over his heart.  A shock wave pulsed through the hall as Ragmorth released all of his energy in one burst of heat and blood red smoke.  He stood back with a hopeless look on his grime-smeared face and was joined by the tearful Kethryes.  Kethryes collapsed at her dead brother’s side and gushed tears, most of which fell on to Bjorg’s gashes.  The holes slowly closed and Kethryes believed she detected a faint heartbeat.  Ragmorth again summoned as much energy as possible and touched Bjorg.  The resulting shock was felt for miles around.  The awe-inspiring pillar red and blue smoke flowed through the atmosphere as Ragmorth’s mumbled chants grew in strength.  With renewed fervor, Ragmorth struggled against all odds to raise Bjorg from the dead.  His body jerked and Bjorg opened his eyes, smiling painfully.  Struggling to raise himself to a sitting position, Bjorg noticed Baal, still bound to the pillar.  Blood flowed from his open wounds and pooled at his feet.53

With much help from his companions, Bjorg stiffly stood and, complete with a glaring scowl, slowly shuffled to Plague Hex.  Hefting his trusty sword, he proceeded to Baal.  Stumbling forward, Bjorg raised his sword and swung it downward with enough force to send a head rolling.  “Ye see, I told ye that ye ‘ad no chance,” spat Bjorg, kicking the loose head against the black void of the huge marble wall.54