Solo The Hard Easy Way

[Razkar]

Continued from here

13th Day of Winter, 512AV

"Just... petching do it..."

Tortuga looked down at the gasping Varos like he'd just smeared the man off his boot. Around him the familiar sounds of aftermath were sounding clear and wet across the morning. Men pleading, begging, screaming, trying to crawl, but to where, exactly? His remaining mercenaries went from man to man with faces varying between stoic and raging. A few well-placed hacks to every moving man, and they went on to the next...

But not to this one. Oh, no...

"You're still useful, Varos." He rumbled, wiping his ax clean and sheathing it across his back. "Telling me who paid you and your moron boss to kill me, for example." Then his eyes twinkled darkly and something like a smile spread under his beard. "Ah. No. Kill Caracatas, am I right? That's who you were expecting to be here. And when she wasn't, Roth decided on the smaller fry."

A gurgling gasp that could have been a chuckle. Varos was already pale and paling even faster, blood pumping languidly from his ruined arm.

"You... always were... small. Just... Prov... Provedan's lackEEEEAAAAAHHH!!!"

Face still stony, Tortuga moved his boot and planted it on the bleeding stump. Then he let his body weight do the rest of the work. Varos spasmed and curled around the boot in agony, screaming and shrieking and retching all at once. When he'd decided enough was enough, Tortuga stepped off.

"Easy way or hard way, Varos. Die easy or die hard. You've still got... I'd say thirty chimes before blood loss kills ya. I can be very creative in thirty chimes."

A hawked load of bloody saliva answered him. Oh, a hard one. Wonderful. Half his force was dead and others were wounded. Some so bad they wouldn't be able to move. The predators that seethed among the Sea of Grass were probably going crazy right now, converging on them like sharks on a shipwreck. They had to move, and move fast, and he did not have time for this.

Then his eyes caught the Myrian kneeling over a twitching body, and Tortuga smiled. He reached down and jerked Varos' head up so he could see.

"I want you to watch this, petch-head." He muttered. "Because after he's done, I'm going to have him start on you..."

Razkar knew the arrow needed to come out, but his work was not yet done. That was what so many misunderstood about him: war and death were not just his trades or his joys, they were his purpose, and it was not a selfish one. Every victory and life he claimed was not for him, not really. They were for his Goddess-Queen, and she demanded sacrifice delivered in the proper manner.

And so, panting and bleeding and with kukri in hand, he straddled the wheezing body of the sword-and-dagger man he'd run through earlier. The man blinked through the blood caking his face, saw a blood-soaked savage kneeling on top of him like some nightmare... raising a knife to the sky...

"Myri... cast eyes on your son this day."

Varos gurgled as he watched the Myrian lower his blade and slice into the man's stomach, deep enough to open it up from love handle to love handle. Some other mercenaries were watching, too, with expressions ranging from disgust to curiosity to amusement.

"Feast though your warrior on this gift I bring. Goddess, I bring you victory."

One that word Varos saw the Myrian reach into the pathetically coughing and struggling man, reach in and in until his hand and wrist hand vanished... feeling upwards... words in a language he did not understand, that were steady and solemn as a prayer in a temple.

Which, to Razkar, was exactly what it was, and where they were.

"I bring you souls from glorious battle. Goddess... I bring you blood."

Tortuga didn't wince when Razkar ripped his hand back out, but he felt Varos actually whimper as the Myrian pulled the beating heart from the hole, holding it over his head and letting thick, black blood drip onto his face. Razkar's eyes were closed, almost in a trance, words shouted now, gaining in strength, offering raised towards the west.

"I, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, fulfill my vow, and pledge myself anew."

There was silence in the clearing, if only for a chime. It was broken only by the sound of teeth tearing through muscle and cartilage. Gulps and swallows and then... rushing water...

Tortuga frowned and looked down, then smiled as he saw the spread darkness on the front of Varos' breeches. The man's eyes were so wide they were like saucers, and he'd gone from pale to pure alabaster. Provedan's lieutenant raised his voice so all could hear.

"Myrian?!" Razkar's head snapped around, blood covering his face and dripping from his mouth. Tortuga nodded to the shaking man at his feet. "He don't want to talk. Convince him."

The Myrian grinned and took up his knife, but by then you couldn't have shut Varos up for all the gold in Syliria.

[Razkar]

Two of the sellswords could not walk. That meant they would have to die.

Razkar watched them dispassionately as he lay on his back, biting down on the handle of his ax, the Burned Man stitching the hole in his back. Every prick of the needle made him tighten his jaws even more, and he knew there'd be teeth marks in the handle for a long time. But the arrow was out and scrubbed with fresh water. Now it was just a matter of sealing the hole...

"You can't leave us here!"

"What do you expect us to do?" Tortuga said, leaning on his ax slightly, cold even in the face of the anguished youth with a slashed hamstring before him. "Carry you all on a litter? On our backs? We need to move fast. You'll slow us down!"

"W-Well... leave us food and water!"

"We'll need that. I don't spare supplies on dead men."

"You bastard!" The second man, a Drykas with braids in his hair and tattoos covering one arm, currently missing a foot, hissed up at him in fury. "We fought for you! We killed so you all could survive!"

Tortuga sighed and scratched his forehead. This was taking up too much of his time as it was. He made a signal and the remaining sellswords started to move with purpose. Weapons and what little gold had been in the bandits' pockets had been looted, and there was no more reason to stay. The human looked around desperately, face shining with sweat.

"P-Please! Please! One of you, please, help us!"

Stony faces looked back at him, but not one of them showed any shame. They were in a hard, unforgiving line of work, and death did not always come for them fast and clean. The older mercenaries among them shook their heads, somewhere between pity and contempt.

Why drag it out? Ask for a quick cut and be done with it. Don't spend your last moments pleading like a child...

"Not an easy thing," the Burned Man muttered, biting off the end of the thread as he finished his work, "being left to die by your friends."

Razkar grunted and took the ax from his mouth. His back would ache and grumble for days, but the hole would heal. He had survived worse. The slash across his chest was shallow and a rough plaster of grass and mud would suffice. He gritted his teeth again and rose to his feet, not taking his eyes off the pleading, crippled men.

"Not friends."

"True..."

Tortuga sighed and nodded to the corpse a few feet away. Well, most of it. He'd kept his word to Varos, after he'd told all that he knew. Now his head was a foot away from his body and he'd even asked him to close his eyes before he cut it off. Couldn't get easier than that, could it?

But the mercenaries quailed before it. The human just trembled, the Drykas bared his teeth and unsheathed a dagger, waving it around him like a madman, stump dragging in a circle of glistening crimson.

"No! Not getting my head cut off like some petching animal!" He whirled on Tortuga, or tried to, the big man not hefting his ax. "Think yer doin' us a favor, do ya? Go petch yourself, and-"

The words stopped, and so did his heart, a few moments later. His whole body jerked and blood dribbled from his lips. The dagger tumbled from dead fingers and he fell forwards...

"Gods!"

The crippled human backpedaled away as he saw the hand ax buried in the Drykas' back, head almost completely lost in his ribcage, praying and bleading madly until it became a simple, insane litany of "nononononono"-

Tortuga swung his ax. Another head toppled lazily from its perch atop a neck, and their second problem was solved. Razkar walked over and bent down, back screeching as he did, and retrieved his ax. He wiped it clean on the dead man's shoulder, then put it in his belt.

Six fresh scalps were there with it. A good day.

He looked up at Tortuga, and the big man just nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper, the same one Caracatas had given him two days before. He squinted at it carefully, having to think backwards now...

"This way," he said after consulting the sun, and started walking. The remainder of his crew followed him, and within moments the clearing was silent again. By nightfall an ocean of fangs and claws and feathers and talons would be feasting here, not to mention half the bugs in the Sea of Grass.

But that was not Razkar's concern, and when the grasses swallowed them, he did not look back.

[Razkar]

"Why didn't you take his scalp?"

It had taken a day and a night for the Burned Man to ask the question. It was longer than Razkar had thought he'd take. The human with the scared, brutalized face was an old hand at the sellsword game, and he didn't shirk from questions. Still, that meant he chose his words carefully, too, and was smart enough to draw the right conclusions most of the time. Apart from now.

The Myrian glanced over at him as they marched through the Sea. Tortuga led, the only one who seemed immune to fatigue. They hadn't slept but an hour last night, their leader determined to get back to the Rattling Chains in record time. Now the sun was barely rising and the air was freezing around them in what seemed like solid blocks.

Razkar gripped his weapons, if only to keep the blood flowing into his hands.

"Who?"

"The Drykas. The one who couldn't walk."

Razkar's face twisted into some like a sneer, although the Burned Ma wouldn't have classified it as that. Sneers were generally reserved for other people. What was on the Myrian's face was pure contempt.

"Not worthy."

The Burned Man nodded slowly. He'd guessed that the final man the Myrian killed, the one Tortuga nailed with a thrown ax, was left with his scalp because Razkar didn't actually kill him. Tortuga did. It wasn't Razkar's kill, so he had no right to his scalp. But the Drykas?

"Because he was wounded?"

"Some." Razkar said after a while. "Not all. Was coward. Not real fighter. Not warrior. Myri would not want his soul." His grimaced again, shaking his head. "Was stupid. Knew was going to die, but could not face death. Wasted time, make death longer, worse. Ended because was better. For us, for him."

The Burned Man had his answer, and they walked in silence back to Rattling Chains.

It was later in the day when they came across the forest, and the sun was nearly setting by the time they'd carved through the tangle of wood and come to the muddy clearing that was Rattling Chains. Tortuga knew that many stunned expressions were directed at him and his wounded band, less than half the number that had set out and, more importantly, without any slaves.

Whispers. Whispers and words and pointed fingers. But no-one dared smirk or jeer. The look of pure murder on Tortuga's face strangled that impulse the second it came to mind.

And at the sight of Haev Provedan rise from the mine entrance to meet him, face serene, utterly non-plussed and with Caracatas behind him, his rage was etched in every word he spoke.

"You knew." He all but snarled, stopping barely a foot from the shorter, slighter man, eyes raging under his bushy eyebrows. "You knew, and you sent me anyway..."

[Razkar]

"I suspected."

"Suspected shit," Tortuga spat, and Provedan blinked. It was a warning, but Tortuga was in no mood to hear it. "You never just suspect. You know how many pigeons shit in the Sea of Grass on any given day. You knew Roth and Varos were gonna try something."

There was a stunned, hushed silence as Rattling Chains seemed to slow and watch the unfolding confrontation. Sellswords were all gazing in curiosity tinged with awe, those close enough to hear it, anyway. A platoon of slaves were doing laps, as always, and their guards knew that Provedan would not be happy that his livestock's exercise had been interrupted.

But Razkar watched. So did the Burned Man. And they stayed the hells out of it.

"I understand you are upset." Provedan said, voice as pedantic as ever. "But I ask you to calm yourself, and think. Would I throw you into a situation you could not handle?"

"If it profited you, yes."

"And where would be the profit in sending my third in command to his death?"

Tortuga didn't have an answer for that. His eyes flickered to Caracatas but the Drykas had nothing for him, face as cold and impassive and her masters'. He wanted to be angry, to rage and rend and reave, but Provedan's Void-like emptiness seemed to suck all the fury out of him. But still...

"Caracatas was meant to go. You sent me. I was more expendable that her, right?"

"Yes."

There was not a beat of hesitation. Tortuga's mouth dropped open but, once again, he found the anger would not come. Which was a shame, since he'd had two days to work on it. Varos had spilled an awful lot in his last few breathing chimes, filled in plenty of blanks for them.

How Balor Takarian had approached them and offered a fine reward for the head of Caracatas, Haev Provedan's eerie Drykas second-in-command. How he'd heard from colleagues and sources that they were often used by the slaver king as sellswords and reavers, and that he wanted them to use that relationship. Five hundred mizas. It was nice for Tortuga to know that he was not being killed for cheap.

But he couldn't hate Provedan, not even as he stared across a mere foot into those black eyes and saw only his own reflection. Because while he was cold and heartless and pragmatic, Provedan was not often cruel. He lied, that was true, but only when he had to, and he did not have to right now.

More infuriatingly, he was right.

Caracatas dead would have crippled his operation in the short-term. Without her, his secret routes across the Sea of Grass would be gone. Webbers were almost unheard of outside of the Drykas pavilions; that he'd ever got Caracatas was a miracle unto itself. Replacing her would be nearly impossible. And after her death, he would be unable to send his sellswords to reave and raid and kidnap, find new stock and replenish supplies. He would have to divert more finances to buying his stock from Ravok, or Sunberth, devote less funds to bribes and donations and protection...

Leaving himself open for Takarian to strike again. So would he risk her? No, he would not. He would send someone less vital, and see how it played out.

And what would Tortuga do in his place...?

"... you could have told me."

"I told you to be careful. You always are. I knew you would return."

"Half my men didn't, and if I hadn't been as quick on-"

"But you were." An interruption. Now Provedan's anger was rising, as imperceptibly but relentlessly as a tide. "And they were my men, Tortuga. Did you think I would send you to met scum like Roth and Varos and no expect you to return? I knew if a betrayal was in the works, you would prevail. There might be losses, but that is the nature of the game. It was a calculated risk. And this matter is now closed."

Tortuga's chest inflated and deflated rapidly several times. He could hear steady breathing behind him, his... no, correction, Provedan's sellswords silent but eager to see how this little drama would end. If he were to strike, to lash out, would they back him? Probably not?

A vicious voice in his head laughed at his impudence.

And would you land the blow if you did? You've seen Haev use his magic. You've seen him Void a man to the cold blackness with a few flicks of his wrist. How long would you last before every inch of you was snapped from this plane like a leaf in a firestorm?

A few more breaths and his heart was back to its usual rate. Teeth gritted behind his red beard, he spoke again.

"Yes. It is done. We have much to discuss."

"I'd wager that we do..."

[Razkar]

The sun died and the fires were born. They were scattered around the clearing, cooking fires outside tents, many covered from the snow that was sure to fall soon. Torches ringed the camp as they always did, keeping away the glassbeaks and illuminating the edge of the forest, just in case any luck escape artist slave managed to slip out the mine and onto the surface.

Not that he'd get very far. The ground was littered with sellswords, wrapped in blankets and huddled around the fires. Their eyes would see anything, even at night.

Especially for supper.

Razkar was by his own tent, Mrrko tethered to a tree right next to it. He'd made his fire, a spit above it, and a hunk of meat was sizzling on it. The Burned Man walked over, just a little unsteadily, and offered a skin of sloshing liquid that Razkar could smell even from there.

"No. Thank you."

"Sure?"

The human shrugged and walked on, drunk but knowing when a man wanted to be left alone. Besides, he knew that the Myrian wasn't cooking petching deer over that fire. Two of the bandits he'd killed were missing limbs when they left the clearing, and the Burned Man knew where they'd gone...

Razkar watched him go and then went back to his sewing. His cloak was growing steadily, much to his satisfaction. The final scalp was carefully stitched onto the bottom of the hem, still sticky and fresh. He held the whole thing up, admiring his good work...

"Satisfied?"

Then lowered it, revealing Tortuga standing there with a sardonic gleam in his eye. The big sellsword commander looked at the tent, then at Mrrko, then at the Myrian.

"Staying?"

Razkar nodded. Going back to Riverfall was unnecessary now, with all that was happening, or what he thought was happening. Provedan's rival, this "Takarian" individual, was obviously more cunning and determined that the slaver had thought. There would be more blood, more killing, more raids and ambushes in the Sea of Grass. His place would be here.

Tortuga nodded and reached into his belt. A clinking bag was tossed at Razkar's feet. He opened it... and blinked at the gold mizas inside. Then he closed the bag back up and tossed it in his sack. Tortuga shook his head and a deep baritone laugh rumbled out of him.

"Most sellswords I know would whoop and holler at that kind of gold, Myrian. Not impressed?"

"You know gold not why I here."

"Then give it back."

"Man has... ah... expensives."

"I think you mean "expenses"."

Razkar nodded furiously, always keen to learn a new Common word. He knew he'd been close anyway.

"Good enough excuse, Razkar." The human breathed in deep, barrel chest expanding, cold night air stabbing his lungs through his nose. He looked around the camp. Fewer fires. More men lost. A red day. "You did well today. Coming from the flank, you and Yakob."

Razkar grinned, and not just at the compliment. Ha! So, trying to be so clever and enigmatic, Yakob? Well, won't you be surprised tomorrow morning. But he pushed that to one side and bowed slightly. A man always liked to be appreciated.

Tortuga knew he wouldn't get much from the savage. He wasn't a braggart or a drunk or even a real talker. He did his job and trained in between and shit and pissed and ate and that was that. He was so... empty.

But, that voice said again, reminding him more of Haev this day, he's useful, and he's cheaper than usual. So use him.

"Provedan wants you to stay close anyway." He said, stepping forwards towards the flames. He licked his lips. "So it's good you're staying. May I?"

Razkar blinked in shock. The human was... yes, he was actually requesting some of the meat. Some of the cooked, human meat. It took him a few moments but he cut off a slice and without hesitation, Tortuga bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully and finally nodded.

"Not bad."

"Had own meat before? Own race?"

Tortuga stared at his shank as he ate, remembering, not seeing.

"A while back. I was with a bunch of, heh... likely lads," the innocent expression turned black in his mouth, "up in Kalea. The mountains. Went out to... forage. Y'know? Whatever we could find. Winter come down on us, so did the mountain we were on. We had food for a week. Snow wouldn't melt for three."

Eyes swiveled towards Razkar in the darkness beyond the fire. Only now did he see their color: blue. Deep and rich as a tropical ocean, hard as topaz and quick as a dragonfly. He kept the gaze and found a new respect for the bearded mercenary.

"We do what we must to survive."

"Yes."

"Until next time, Razkar."

Razkar nodded again, and Tortuga left. The Myrian watched him go until his shape was destroyed by the shadows. Then he went back to his meal.

[Jackalope]

Raz

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Observation	+2	The Purpose of Fighting: For My Goddess-Queen
		Leaving the Wounded to Die
		Judging Who is Worthy
		Provedan Does What Benefits Him Most

Injury: Chest laceration- Painful for the next couple days, dull pain for 2 weeks
Arrow wound- 2 weeks of moderate pain, strenous activity will open the wound again, risk infection, and lengthen recovery time. 1 month of dull pain afterwards
All this is of course without magical healing

Ledger: +60GM


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