Solo Repossession

[Razkar]

33rd of Fall, 512AV

The days passed, and well, but without blood or violence. Still, Razkar was used to that. He'd come to understand that most foreigners believed the Myrians fought constantly, and he supposed that was broadly accurate. But could one always find enemies? Probably not. You had to go find them. You had to march.

He'd done a lot of marching, and it was always boring.

Led by the stoic Manfred, the raiding party had been on the move for four days. At night they rested, slashing and hacking out a large enough area for them to sleep and light torches that filled the sky with their glare. Razkar asked one of the mercenaries - a tall human with wild eyes and a horrific burn scar covering half his face - why that was.

"Glassbeaks." The Burned Man had said, already bedded down on the cut grass. "Fire's the only thing they're afraid of. During the day it's bad enough, but at night... well... everyone's gotta sleep."

That was enough for Razkar. He'd heard plenty about the apex predators of the Sea of Grass. They were huge, fierce, hard to kill and never, ever alone. What was worse, they were intelligent. Even Razkar was wary when the cleared the forest around Rattling Chains and came upon the endless rolling grasslands. Wagon trails and the famous caravan route were the only ways across it. Safely, at least. Doing anything else was tantamount to suicide.

But not to Caracatas and, by extension, Manfred.

"Do this much? Follow words on paper?"

The Burned Man opened his eye and looked at Razkar, then closed it again. He had been been working with Provedan for a while, and was used to questions and the man's ways.

"Sometimes. Most times Caractas, the woman, leads us. Sometimes it's Manfred. Dunno why it's him this time, must be some reason from the boss. But, yeah, she sees the way, writes it down, and we follow it. First time she did, gods, I nearly pissed myself the whole time, just tramping through the bloody Sea, but... it worked. She found a safe way."

"How?"

"Webbing. The web that covers the Sea. She can read it. Find things on it, like grassbeaks, Drykas, and even queerer things. Wouldn't be able to go out on jobs like this without her."

Razkar frowned as he assimilated this, not taking his eyes off Manfred, who was reading and re-reading the parchment, burning the words and directions into his brain.

"She find safe way to enemy?"

"Exactly. Why'd ya think we haven't just gone in a straight line?"

That should have occurred to Razkar. Their journey through the limitless tall grass hadn't been linear. They'd twisted and turned, even doubled-back on one occasion, all after Manfred had ordered a halt, consulted his parchment and then given crisp, clear orders. Every hour it seemed he would halt their party, eyebrows fused as he read... and make a decision.

"We close?"

The Burned Man just shrugged. Around them rose soft snores and fragments of conversation. Most of the sellswords were asleep. The majority were veterans who knew there was more value in a good night's rest.

"Ask him."

Razkar decided to do just that. He waited until after he finished, when his hairy hands carefully folded the parchment and replaced it in his breeches, then busied himself with getting ready to sleep. The Myrian walked over and he glanced up at him, head cocked to one side.

"Tomorrow we fight?"

It was the only question that mattered to him. Smiling slightly, as if he realized that, face all the more brutal in the torchlight, he nodded.

"Yes."

Satisfied, Razkar went back to his little patch of dirt, and prepared himself. He drew his offering plate from his kitbag, and on bended knee he drew his gladius. His words were soft, whispered but earnest, eyes focused so hard on the torch in front of him the flame seemed to rise from his attention.

"Goddess... see your son Razkar of the Shorn Skulls the morrow... and rejoice. Know his blades shall cleave for you. Know his soul shall war in your name. Know that blood and bone and flesh shall be harvested in thy honor."

He sliced his left pectoral, a short, shallow gash that bled enough to spill into the bowl he held under it. His expression did not change, nor his tone. He welcomed the sting; it reminded him of his vow. Usually he would slice his hand, but with a battle coming, that would be very close to stupid.

"Ancestors... smile upon my works... know your son is worthy of his place among you..."

When the bowl had a mouthful in it, he wiped his blade on the grass and sheathed it. Then he turned to the west, which he knew by the stars, and raised the bloody offering.

"And our Queen will be honored... in your son's deeds."

He drank the bowl down to the last drop. It was the work of a moment to clean the cut, making sure it would not hinder him tomorrow. Then he laid down, stars blazing above him. Countless points of light in blackish blue eternity. Razkar had heard scholars say every light could be another world. Or was it they had worlds near them? He could never remember.

He certainly didn't that night. He blinked a few times, tiny smile on his face. One would think he was enjoying the view. They would be wrong.

Razkar closed his eyes and imagined chaos and blood and the delicious horror of battle. He slept well.

[Razkar]

Contrary to what most believed, the caravan route was not the only road across the Sea of Grass. There were several other wagon trails that had been ground into and through the grasslands over the centuries. They were riskier, though, for obvious reasons. Less traveled than the caravan route, less protected, any traveler on them could go hours, even days before others arrived if harm befell them. Some had been destroyed by the djed storm, too, when the rest of Mizahar was wracked and scarred by those primal powers.

But still, many took them. Well-armed and well-provisioned... and usually, those who did not wish to be scrutinized too closely.

One such procession made their way along an old wagon trail maybe a week's walk from Riverfall. Dozens of people, most of them chained, sullen, resigned and with glassy, glazed eyes. Kelvics and humans. Men, women, children, but no old folk.

No profit in the elderly, as Xani always said.

He was not in chains. Nor were the three dozen men with him, all armed and hard-eyed, marching in front and behind the chained mass of slaves. He was human, in his forties, face weathered and lined as a cliff face. Eyes that had no known pity in years looked over his shoulder and scrutinized his cargo one more time.

They'd been marching for hours. And they would keep marching. They were close to Riverfall and with the route his master had laid out, would make the delivery they intended with time to spare.

"Stop for a breather soon?"

He glanced at his lieutenant, Keril, a thin, tall sellsword with tattoos covering half his face. A few of the mercenaries behind them suddenly became very attentive, feet sore and weapons heavy in their arms. The sun beat down brutally and incessantly above then, cruelly indifferent to their trudging. Xani grimaced and nodded.

"Another hour, yeah. Want to cover some more distance first."

"The slaves are tired."

A short, sharp bark like a dog's and Xani grinned, showing lots of gaps where teeth should have been.

"And my heart petching bleeds for them."

He chuckled and kept riding. He and Keril and a dozen others were mounted, the rest too poor or too new to have their own horse. They made up the rearguard, marching behind the slaves, while the riders led the column. They, along with the chains that bound all the slaves to one another, made escape impossible. Even if you did get free of the manacles, you'd still have to run, and the horsemen would run you down in moments.

Xani smiled and took a gulp from his cattle-skin canteen. A nice, clean, simple job, this one. Working for The Akalak, as he simply called him, was often a pain. So constrained by the incessant rules and regulation of Riverfall, the hypocritical lip service he and his private army had to pay to the Council. But this job? Fetch and carry, pretty much, and he'd be well paid.

He grinned even wider, ignoring the tall grass on either side of the trail for a moment as he thought of the whores and grog it would pay for. It had been a long, boring month in Kenash, purchasing the slaves the Akalak had ordered him to. Kelvics were the majority, of course, the species most coveted by the Akalak's. Humans, too, for breeding purposes.

But no Drykas. The Akalak had been very firm on that. The horsemen had enough power in the Sea of Grass to prove troublesome if they heard their people were being sold into slavery in Riverfall. So while humans and Kelvics were an acceptable commodity, the tribesmen were not.

Which meant he had to make sure every human was not Drykas. Which was a pain in his fat, hair arse. But he did it. Xani had haggled and groused and cajoled, even threatened and intimidated a few times, all to get the best price and the correct slaves. That would make the Akalak in his ivory tower happy.

And it would mean more money left over for him to wet his pintle and his lips. Oh, and he knew how well Riverfall could service both those ends. The city was often a little uptight for his tastes, but if you looked closely-

The fantasy died the same way he did: with an arrow through his neck.

Something splashed on Keril's face and he blinked it away. When he opened his eyes again, Xani had fallen from his mount, the stallion rearing in panic, an arrow two feet long jamed through his neck and blood pumping through both holes.

The mercenary commander toppled from his horse and-

"AMBU-"

-two arrows took him in the chest, just as he got his sword out of its sheath. He looked down, eyes wide in shock, not believing the sight of the two arrows in his chest... through his heart...

An broken moment later, the grass became alive, became angry, and screamed and sprang and swung onto the caravan from both sides.

Including a screaming, joyous Myrian with a weapon in each hand.

[Razkar]

"FOR MYRI!"

Razkar had been waiting for hours, crouched in the grass like a tiger, and finally had his chance for true, honest battle. All of them, even Manfred, lined the road beyond the screen of grass. He had to hand it to the cyclopean human, he knew how to plan an ambush. He kept them back far enough so the swaying grass would hide them from sight, but not so far as so when they decided to strike, it would not be swift. But their real stroke of luck?

Horsemen. The grasses were tall, true, but not so tall that a mounted man would not rise above them. Including his head and chest.

The perfect target, and their archers did not waste their chance.

Manfred waited until the caravan was right in the middle of them... then signaled the two men flanking him. Both armed with shortbows, both skilled with them... and both brutally accurate at this distance.

The leader and his lieutenant were killed in a blink. And more arrows followed, fast and quick and-

-Razkar did not care. He did not come all this way to pick off his enemies from afar.

With that guttural roar in his native tongue, he exploded from the grass and headed straight for the milling, confused horsemen in front of him. They were disoriented right now, but it wouldn't last long. With a yell he raised his hand ax and launched it overarm at the nearest one. It whirled and turned in the air and thunked into the man's chest, head buried in his lung. The horseman screamed and tumbled from his mount, but by the time he hit the muddy trail Razkar had already rushed to another, gladius in hand.

All around him Provedan's men launched themselves at their enemies. The sheer surprise of the ambush had been their biggest advantage, their chance to get the first, lethal blows in at their enemy. Arrows continued to fly out from the grass, the archers staying put and impaling man after man. A third of the caravan's guards were killed or wounded in moments. The slaves screamed and the mass of them convulsed like some great beast, trying to run and fall and hit the ground all at the same time.

Provedan's mercenaries poured from the grass, sword and ax and mace and spear flashing, lunging, joining the battle. A crescendo of screams and yells and clashing steel.

Half-a-dozen of them were with the Myrian when he charged. Battle was joined all around him.

A tattooed Akalak roared as he stabbed a lakan into a horseman's chest, so tall he didn't even need to reach up. The roar just kept on going as he heaved the man out of the saddle, lakan first, blood showering over him as he did.

A long-haired sellsword impaled another horseman with his spear, two feet of it protruding out his back, but not before he frothed blood and slashed down with his sword, splitting the spearman's head in twain.

Razkar grinned as he closed to his own target.

Perfect.

The horseman jerked his head at the running Razkar and rather than waste the time aiming upwards, the Myrian swung his razor-sharp blade horizontally and hacked through the man's knee, swung over one side of the horse. He shrieked in agony as the leg came away, hanging by the stirrup under the horse like some grotesque dropping, the man himself falling from the cut, bleeding, terrified creature as it bolted.

He did not have long to feel the pain. Razkar slashed his throat open and went hunting for another.

But now their enemies realized what was going on, and were fighting back.

"BASTARD!"

One of the horseman reared up in front of him, slashing down with a bastard sword. Razkar jerked his arm up, blade horizontal, blocking the blow-

-only for the horseman's foot to kick him in the chest.

Air escaped his lungs in a whoosh and he staggered backwards, wishing he'd worn his armor for a change. The horseman raised his bastard sword again, snarling with anger, kicking his mount closer-

-only for Razkar to drop to one knee and slice one of its legs off at the knee.

Half a ton horseflesh became an uncontrollable mass of agony in a split second, crashing down and throwing the rider over its head. The horseman screamed as he landed heavily behind Razkar, the horse thrashing and whinnying in that unholy way they always do when in pain.

The mercenary shook his head clear and rolled onto his back-

-just in time for Razkar to bury his gladius in his chest.

Blood frothed from his mouth and his eyes popped wide. He tried to raise his sword one last time and Razkar twisted the blade, ripping a ragged whole through his heart. The bloody head flopped back to the mud, and Razkar pulled his blade loose.

All around him the same scene was being played out, and dozens of others. Men pulled from horses and butchered. Horses wounded and their thrown riders made easy meat. Men with arrows in their chests toppling and flailing. Men on both sides with limbs hacked off, gashes as wide as a fist opened in their torsos, heads sliced off.

He saw the Burned Man leap at a horseman who took the arm off one of Haev's mercenaries, bearing him to the ground as he did, both of them rolling in a tangle of limbs. Burned Man ended up on top, stabbing his short dagger over and over into the man's face until it was a hunk of raw, dripping meat.

Razkar smiled. A man after his own heart.

"KILL 'EM ALL!"

The Myrian barked with laughter, not needing to be told twice-

-and the mace struck the side of his head like a thunderbolt.

Continued here

[Jackalope]

Razkar

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Observation	+1	Glassbeaks Fear Fire
Handaxe	+1	Paying Respects to Myri With Your Own Blood
Running	+1	Ambush Tactic: Taking out Leaders with Arrows
Gladius	+2

Witty Remark Here

First things. I thought there was when I began, but there simply aren't other wagon trails in the Sea of Grass. The grass grows too fast and there isn't enough consistent traffic to have a trail exist, you know? Good combat thread. You've got a knack for writing this stuff. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can figure it out.