Flashback Scorched Earth

[Razkar]

Continued from here

26th of Winter, 510AV

The bugger about crossbows is they take so long to reload. A bow you can just notch another arrow and draw the string. Not so a crossbow. They have to be held down with a foot, the string pulled tight to the top, then snapped into place, pulled back up-

Reg was at the second part of that when Razkar hit him like a charging Tskanna.

The Myrian roared and swung his hand ax, razor-sharp head cleaving through the human's neck down to his spine. Reg spasmed and jerked as his nervous system went insane, crossbow falling along with his body. Razkar had already withdrawn it before he hit the ground, moving to the next-

-who had time to scream once before his second blow opened up his throat.

A red spray splattered the Myrian's chest and the third crossbowman jerked his weapon up just in time. Razkar's ax bit into it and the human shoved it to his side, crossbow and all, kicking out at Razkar's crotch-

-only for him to slide his leg behind him, body pivoting so the foot hit nothing but air-

-and bringing his fist in a roundhouse to the human's jaw

The crossbowman fell back but the other two were well on their way to Razkar, drawing daggers instead, too many for him to handle. But already the tide was turning, inexorably, inevitably. More and more Myrians were streaming out of the mist, the archers among them, searching for fresh targets with arrows notched. More crossbowmen emerged, but they were outnumbered now, hemmed in as return fire started to pepper them.

"FOR MYRI!"

Oxil roared out his loyalty to Myri from the left. One of the crossbowmen turned just in time to see stocky Myrian's mace fly towards his head, and that was the last sight his eyes took in. His face seemed to cave inwards, nose and lips and eyes smashed into brain matter, dead before he hit the mud.

The final crossbowman of the little knot that had tried to fight turned to run, but did not get far. A blur hammered past Razkar, shrieking with bloody joy and running the fleeing human through from behind. Erama grinned savagely as her sword shot out a good half foot from the human's sternum, his disbelieving eyes fixed on the bloody point. She whispered something into his ear... and twisted it.

The human sighed and sobbed and when she ripped her sword clear, he died. Then she ran on.

"P... Please!"

The surviving crossbowman was trying to backpedal on the ground, feet jerking back, one hand on his battered jaw, the other held up in pitiful defence. Razkar turned on him and grinned, pulled his ax from the remains of the strange human bow. He towered over the begging man, raised his weapon-

"Pleasedon'tI'msorrypleasepleasenononoNO!"

-and with a yell bought it down over and over and over again onto the screaming mans face.

[Razkar]

"Petching scum!"

With that word Rehkuna ripped the bolt from her arm and threw it over her shoulder in disgust. Typical. She coordinated the attack and when she finally gets into the camp, her reward is one of these tiny, fiendish arrows in her. Truly, while the Goddess of War is her mother, War itself is her father, and he does hate his children.

Then she swept her eyes over the interior of the camp, and grinned.

But he hates the humans more.

The surviving sentries were cut down in moments, but she can see the muddy bodies of her people here and there, too. The Taloba-pledged warriors kept to the plan and charged into close quarters as soon as possible, denying their enemy use of those bastard bows of theirs.

Rehkuna drew her own gladius, one for each hand, and decided to aid them.

----------

The humans did not believe they were lost. Razkar would suppose later that it was what made them most dangerous: they never gave up. Even with their walls scaled and their sellswords decimated and the savages among them, the merchants and slaves and peasants joined the few surviving mercenaries with old swords and hammers, shovels, picks, pitchforks, anything to hand. They fought bravely, and desperately.

Razkar welcomed that. It made killing them much more satisfying.

A human charged at him from the side, spear in his hand. Razkar twisted his body to the right as he slashed down with his hand ax, gripped in his right hand. The spear tip was knocked away from his body but the human's momentum keeping him moving. Razkar kept his body turning, all the way around-

-bringing the hand ax round in a backhand and burying it in the middle of the human's back.

The man screamed shrilly into the slowly dying mist but it was cut off when Razkar wrenched it free, slashing across his face with another backhand. It seemed to just fall apart, gash opened up in it so wide it didn't seem possible for the face to contain it.

The human collapsed to bleed out, gurgling in the mud, and Razkar was already moving on.

Oxil caved in the head of a mercenary to his left. Erama actually laughed as she ripped a wood ax from a human's hand and gutted him with her sword. All around them, the tide was turning, the human's were-

-Razkar howled as the crossbow bolt caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The new spasm of pain brought him down to one knee, teeth gritted in agonized fury. Feet ran towards him, leather under pale skin-

Wth a snarl Razkar lashed out and took the human's foot off just above the ankle. It wasn't the unseen crossbowman, but the mercenary hit the ground anyway, blood spurting from the stump where his foot used to be, sword tumbling. What he'd thought would be a quick, easy kill on a wounded enemy had become-

-a hand ax that took off his head when Razkar brought it down in a sweeping vertical strike, slicing through flesh and bone and the mud beyond.

But it was not yet over.

A commotion behind him, and when he turned he saw an impossibly-broad human duelling Oxil. The younger Myrian was doing his best but once again, his footwork was failing him. He was trying to pit pure strength against strength, but here was one being who was stronger.

And proved it by smashing his mace in two with one blow of his warhammer.

Oxil stared at the shattered hilt for a second and then remembered himself. Just in time, too, for that warhammer came around again. He jerked backwards and a blow that should have caved in his skull glanced off it instead, sending him spinning back with blood running into his eye. The gargantuan human grunted, left arm gleaming dully in the early light. Razkar blinked, sure he must be seeing things. It looked... metal. Some kind of armor, covering his arm from shoulder to fist, shining like metal fish scales.

The human closed in on Oxil as he crouched, blood blinding him, and raised his hammer...

Razkar roared and flung himself onto his back.

[Razkar]

Devak did not ponder death too much. His employer Wilamar and his erstwhile comrades always assumed him to be dour and humorless, but he'd always thought it much more accurate to describe himself as pragmatic. There was Life, and there was Death. You provided for your clan during the former and prepared yourself as best you could for the latter. But worrying, fretting, falling apart?

Not his style.

So when the encampment started to fall apart all around him, his friends and "clients" dying at the hands of these barely-clothed monsters overrunning it, he picked up his hammer and started swinging. What else was there to do? Mercy would not be shown by either side, and he couldn't hide or run.

Devak fought, though he knew he would die. And that made him much, much harder to kill.

Something large and angry slammed onto his back, sinewy arms wrapping around his neck, and like a bull he bucked and twisted and Razkar knew from the white shards of pain in his shoulder that he couldn't-

-before he could finish the thought Dervak hurled him over his shoulder.

For the second time in minutes Razkar was airborne, and landed just as heavily as before. He rolled but now the crossbow bolt ground against his bone, making him cry out. His ankle screamed under him and he barely managed to limp to his feet, pulling his gladius from his belt. His ax was gone; where he did not know.

The human was nearly a foot taller than him, but eerily composed. Ready to die, but not go quietly. Breathing shallow and forcing the pain from his mind, Razkar reached up and pulled the bolt from his shoulder. Dervak cocked an eyebrow and hefted his hammer.

Razkar hurled himself at his enemy.

The broad man was not slow. His arm jerked up and with a clang that shook Razkar's arm metal met metal, stopping the sword dead. Dervak drove his head forwards and Razkar swayed back, avoiding the headbutt-

-but not the hammer.

An impact that cracked ribs slammed into his side and knocked him from his feet. Razkar grunted, on one knee, gladius vanishing in the fall, as Dervak raised his weapon for a killing blow-

-only for the Myrian to launch upwards at his target-

-but landing teeth first.

Dervak's composure pretty much vanished as a broad mouth filled with sharp teeth slammed into his face, biting down on his nose, upper lip and one of his eyes. He screamed in a queer, shrieking way as the Myrian wrapped his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck, holding tight and denying him use of that massive hammer. But he wasn't thinking about using it. Sheer, primal terror took over-

His eye burst as Razkar strained to bring his teeth together. Then his nose was gnawed through.

Still screaming, the human fell backwards, flailing madly, pounding his metal arm against the beast's back. But all that did was make it grunt and jerk its head back and forth, side to side, ripping more and more flesh free.

Razkar reared up and spat out most of an eye and an entire nose. Dervak's hammer dropped from his hand and both of them went to his ruined face

The Myrian smiled with his face coated in tangy, iron-rich blood, and his head darted for the man's throat.

Dervak tried to scream, but his mouth filled with blood as his jugular was ripped open by the Myrian's teeth. Razkar kept gnawing away, feeling the strength ooze from his enemy's blows, his metal hand falling to the mud.

His hand scrabbled around for a weapon, found the hammer.

Dervak looked up through a dying eye. He saw a beast coated in mud and blood straddle him. He saw something huge and bulbous raised over its head... then bought down with a merciless screech...

His own hammer hurtling towards his face was the last thing he ever saw.

[Razkar]

The human refused to die. His guts pushed and pulsed further out of the hole in his chest with every move he made. His palor turned paler and paler with every minute. His strikes and parries grew ever more sluggish... but he would not go down.

Rehkuna knew this would be a worthy enemy, and there were few left.

The battle had turned to simple slaughter. The mercenaries had been hacked and shot down, the peasants tried to surrender and were simply butchered. The human fought hard, but they too were overwhelmed. Torches had been thrown by her brothers and sisters. Flames began to lick around the tents and crates, animals screamed and bucked and fled or were slashed apart where they stood by the rampaging Myrians. It was the end.

But Wilamar would not stop fighting.

A screaming Myrian swung at his head with a sword and he swayed away, slashing his stomach and making him double over. Before the wiry savage could react, the mortally wounded human swung down and cleaved his head in two. But the effort had him staggering on his feet, blackness entering his vision...

... the same time as a tall, merciless, grinning woman with a sword in each hand.

"You are last." She said in butchered Common, words sounded even more gnarled and twisted through his fading ears. "Fight good. Fight me."

Wilamar panted, and his eyes darted to his tent. For now, it was still untouched. Maybe... just maybe... they would leave it be. But he'd seen enough battles and sieges and massacres to know that would not be the case. Everyone would die here. Young and old, male and female. The Myrians would tolerate nothing less.

So he would go out fighting, and take one more soul with him.

"Die... bitch!"

He slid forwards and struck with his bastard sword, but she blocked him without even trying hard. Her right-hand gladius came spinning around and he jerked his bastard back to intercept the flashing steel, but the left was moving again-

-slamming the bottom of the hilt into his side, jangling his already protruding guts.

Wilamar staggered back and against the wall, waves of pain rippling through him, sapping his strength. But not his will. The bitch could have killed him, but no, she wanted to insult him with pain. Mocking him! He gritted his teeth and straightened back up, picking up a dagger from the ground, discarded by some dead or forgotten fighter.

"That... it? All you... you got...?"

Rehkuna just smiled, and stepped forwards, blades whirling.

He parried one with the dagger, smacking it aside and opening her left side, but her right came around and bit into the bastard sword-

-and he slashed down her chest with the dagger.

She hissed and backed up, eyes flaring, teeth bared in shocked anger. He grinned, blood on his teeth, and ignored the numbness creeping up his legs. He could do this. He could beat her. He would be dead soon, he knew that, but...

Wilamar blinked. They were not alone. A ring of blood- and mud-soaked Myrians were watching them now, stoic and silent. Rehkuna's eyes darted around at them, then she swished her swords in the air and came at him with all her injured pride.

Wilamar was a brave man, but against her, in his condition, he stood no chance.

The gladius came so fast it was a blur his dagger only barely reached, and no sooner had it clanged into it it was jerked down, to the side, against his wrist. He dropped the dagger, saw the right gladius sweep down, he staggered to avoid it-

-straight onto the tip of the other gladius.

Wilamar gasped and froze. He was aware of Rehkuna's scream of victory as she swiped off his right hand, bastard sword flying away with it. He knew it was gone but... no pain... just...

"... no..."

He slumped to his knees. He was so tired. He could feel his soul floating away, all his worries and fears, but not his lusts, his wishes. He wanted to see his home one more time, to speak with his brothers and have one more ale from Cartney's in Sylira. The local brand was so good there. He wanted one more meal, one more night with Raquel.

Wilamar felt the mud soak his knees through breeches and knew he would never rise from them. He could hear soft, slow footsteps pace around him; the low, rising, rhythmic sound of chanting from savage throats.

He didn't want to die here. Believed so hard and so much that he would survive. But the voice that had kept him alive for so many years on so many battlefields whispered that what he believed did not matters. The gods and the world were not so forgiving.

Rehkuna grabbed his hair and jerked it back, exposing his throat. But he would not be so lucky for that to be cut. Instead, she slashed along the top of his forehead, and started pulling back on his scalp.

Reality, the voice said as he finally faded away, does not care if you believe.

----------

The human's face oozed across the mud. Razkar stared at it dumbly, mesmerized, as if incapable of doing anything else. His ears were filled only with the pounding of his own blood. His wounds ached and dug at him like blades at his nerves. But he did not move.

He watched gray matter slide over yellow fat and red muscle into black dirt. He watched teeth glitter like stunted diamonds, scattered around a maw that used to be a mouth. A phallic pink growth that used to be a tongue. An eye, lifeless and staring, looking into forever from a bed of blood.

Razkar blinked and dragged his head up. It was nearly over.

Myrians danced and whooped by the flaming tents. Men and women were hacked down where they stood or knelt. A woman was dragged by the hair from a tent, half-naked, tears streaming along with her red hair. One of the sergeants barked at the two men who held her, and they let her be.

Raquel begged from her knees, trying to drag the woman's ankles in supplication.

The Myrian woman spat in disgust and took her head off with a single swipe.

Razkar toppled backwards into mud and darkness.

[Razkar]

He heard before he could see. The crackling and low roar of flame. No voices, though. Movement. Dragging, Footsteps. A low steady thumping sound, always accompanied by an extra roar of flame. The stench hit him next. Burning wood... and flesh...

Razkar opened his eyes to see a pile of burning, headless corpses. All was right with Falyndar.

He tried to sit up but the pain slapped him down. Well, that as Erama. She cursed him for messing up her rhythm as she stitched his crossbow wound up. He glared at her briefly but let the woman work.

"How long?"

"An hour," she said without looking up, concentrating on the task at hand, "Maybe a little bit more. Thought you were dead."

"Not yet."

The humans and their strange, short allies were in an untidy heap that was burning steadily. No care or special pride had been taken in their stacking or destruction, no more than you would a nest of rats that needed to be burnt. The Myrians, though, had been lined up neatly in a long line. They were on their backs, eyes closed, hands folded over their chests.

Razkar regarded them with something between pity and disdain. They had paid the ultimate price for their loyalty... and at the same time, they had been proved wanting in the way of the warrior. For now they were dead...

He ignored the stitching and the fading pain in his ankle. They would have to carry those bodies back to Taloba, all two dozen of them, for proper burial. It was the least they deserved. But for now, he needed to be patched up, for he still had something to do...

Erama bit off the end of the thread and before she could spit it out Razkar was on his feet. He winced and grimaced as his ribs cried out, and his ankle, the woman rising at the same time.

"Goddess, Razkar, you-"

"Save your concern," he growled, already stalking to the mass of heads on the other side of the fire, "I have scalps to collect..."

Wounded he was, but recovering, and he needed a proper tally for when he made his offering.

[Razkar]

They came for destruction, and they wreaked it. Every tent and crate was razed, leaving naught but ash and charcoal and smoking ruin. All the animals were butchered, prime cuts sliced off for rations, the rest left for the flies and vultures.

The humans' heads were left in a pyramid that was taller than two Myrians standing on each others shoulders. Almost all of them glistened with slick redness in the sun, scalped after or as they died.

Razkar looked back on their handiwork as they prepared to leave. Within a few weeks, as he knew full well, the jungle would devour all traces of this place. The trees and undergrowth would return, obliterating the burnt tents and torches and immolated crates with their varied booty from the barbarian lands. The heads would stripped of flesh by everything between worms and vultures and tigers, leaving just picked skulls.

Mostly. Wilamar's was swinging from Rehkuna's belt, her new trophy. Razkar's own belt was warm and moist with four fresh scalps. He smiled, using a tree limb as a crude crutch as they started to reform and head into the jungle.

War had come. War always came. He just had to wait... and rejoice...

"Move out!"

Rehkuna roared her order, and the only living humanoids in that valley started to march into the trees. The jungle ate them alive without burping, figure after figure vanishing into the vines and trees and shrubbery so thick even light and sound could not pierce it. Razkar was among them, wounded, sore, bruised... but still smiling.

He turned a wry eye to Oxil, who winced with every step, ugly stitching above his eyes.

"Satisfied now?"

The boy took his time to respond, and Razkar approved. "For now."

A harsh, animal laugh broke from Razkar's lips. The younger Myrian was learning well.

"Good answer..."

Moments later, the valley was empty again of life. Predators, herbivores, scavengers, birds and bugs watched sullenly as they left. Soon their songs and calls resounded again through the smoke and the stench of death. Falyndar had been reclaimed, and a warning sent for the next barbarians that attempted to pass this way.

[Traverse]

Thread Awards! Razkar : Experience: Brawling 1 Endurance 2 Hand Axe 3 Lore: Humans: Defiant Till the End The Satisfaction of Injuries and Victory Additional Notes : I really appreciate how you write from the other character's perspectives in your threads, whether its the Myrian tiger, the prideful Myrian, or the misplaced mercenary. That technique really adds a lot to your writing and I can really enjoy Razkar's moments within this larger story you put in place. I don't think the alterations took much of anything away from this thread either, so thanks for making those changes. Keep in mind, it would be very difficult to bite through a pure blooded Isur's face in the manner that you did in this thread. Though their arm is the nigh indestructible part of their body, their flesh is significantly denser and more resilient than a humans. If this was a half blooded Isur it would make substantially more sense, and for reality's sake (and because that part was awesomely gory) that is what I considered Devak while reading that section. All in all a wonderfully violent thread. Questions, Concerns? PM me and we'll be to the bottom of it. Safe Travels!