[Flashback] Not a Nightmare

by **Ulric** on May 21st, 2011, 1:36 pm

17th of Summer, 509 AV

“Seems like it’s just you and me,” Garth sighed, wiping blunt, bloody fingers across his leather coat. Ulric unleashed a string of curses. He hadn’t particularly liked Jem, but now the odds were stacked even worse against them, if that was even possible. For natural reason, he didn’t want to venture an estimate. He peeked over the crude barricade of barrels, sacks, and bolts of cloth, trying to discern whether the marauders were stirring in the shadowy depths of the forest. The muddy track was strewn with corpses and debris, like a scene from one of his worst nightmares. A wagon was burning, the tongues of flame sending up a cloud of thick, acrid smoke, while another had toppled onto its side, its muddy spokes pointing absurdly at the sky. The dead horses were already gathering flies where they slumped in their traces. There were arrows everywhere, broken into pieces, sticking into corpses, creating the facade of a great, slothful hedgehog on where the barricade. The ambush had been swift and brutal, a handful of men dying in the chaos before the pyromancer drove the marauders back into the forest, allowing the caravan master and his servants to form the wagons into a circle.

Now he was dead.

Everybody was dead.

Ulric slithered over the charred earth, returning with the dead mercenary’s crossbow and a leather quiver with a pair of iron-tipped quarrels. “Why does this have to happen now,” he growled under his breath. He hadn’t done this sort of work in years, but the one time he decided to make some easy coin he ended up caught in the middle of a massacre. Lying against a pile of sacks, he thrust a boot into the stirrup so he could draw back the length of cord, his back and shoulder muscles trembling with the effort, and slip it over the catch. He fit a quarrel into the slot, casting another furtive glance over the top of the barricade. The forest was silent, but that didn’t mean the marauders weren’t out there, watching them. Ulric knew the pair of them were caught like fish in a barrel, reduced to hiding from the archers that concealed themselves into the forest. This wasn’t his sort of fight. The marauders kept melting back into the dense ranks of trees, which meant he was often engaging an enemy he could always hear, but rarely see.

“Have enough bolts?”

“Four,” Ulric said with a grimace. He wanted to charge into a knot of the marauders, hacking left and right, but they weren’t stupid enough to give him the chance. No, they recognized the disadvantage a group of lightly armed, no doubt poorly trained fighters had against a pair of heavies. “Jem have anything we can use?”

“Just spears, and a few knives he took from the drivers. Here, take your pick.” Garth threw over the bundle. “His sword is mine, though.”

“Never cared for swords,” Ulric caught the spears before they vanished over the bulwark. He shifted a few sacks aside, wedging the shafts through so their points protruded from the other side. An arrow whistled past his head. He slithered to the left, vainly trying to pick the archer out of the shadows.

“Got a climber?”

“Nope.” Ulric shook his head. “The angle was low.” He knew they couldn’t let their foes gain the advantage of firing down of them, which would negate much of the shelter afforded by the barricade.

“We ought to make a run for it.” Garth dug the edge of his shield into the earth and began working to shore up the barricade, peeking over the opposite side at regular intervals.

“We wait until dark, then we go.” Ulric said, knowing that was what Garth probably meant in the first place. It was suicide to go now, when there were a few bells of light remaining. “How are you doing with the chest?”

“How about you focus on watching the front door?” Garth snarled. Ulric gave a shrug, for his nerves were also at a breaking point. A twig snapped, closely followed by another, then another. They’re on the move. He stared out from his vantage point, using a scrap of sack to conceal his face. More noise, but no sign of the archer. Where are they? He peered from one side to another, seeing nothing. How about under the wagons? No luck there, either. He moved to the other side of his sector, cradling his own crossbow to his chest. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he could have sworn that he glimpsed a brief flicker of movement.

“One, maybe more,” he growled, hearing the other man curse as he gathered up his recurved bow and covered the back, where the wagons to either side didn’t provide any cover from archers. Ulric scrambled back to the other side, where he’d left the other crossbow. He thought he saw a shoulder sticking out from one trunk, and the perhaps another man further back in the trees, sheltered by too many trunks for him to risk the last of his remaining quarrels. His eyes darted to the gap under the wagon to his right, but he couldn’t make out any crawling shapes.

“Two here.”

“Shyke.” Ulric knew what that meant. “You’d better not miss,” he snarled. His mouth was suddenly dry, icy tendrils of fear racing down his spine. He was consumed by an overwhelming desire to remain where he was, but he angrily shook his head, trying to force the terror away.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Ulric rose slightly, making a show of sighting down his crossbow. Garth, if you miss, he scowled, but then the mercenary was barking out a warning. He hurled himself to the side, hearing a pair of twangs, followed closely by a single twang. As the arrows streaked over his head, he brought up his crossbow, catching the man in front breaking cover as he drew back the string of his longbow. Ulric sent a quarrel at the archer, ducking the arrow that flew toward him, and snatched up the other crossbow. He’d missed, but at the same time, he’d managed to get the archer to leave cover. Now firing out of a different position, he took more time with his next shot, his patience rewarded by a strangled cry. “Winged him,” he grunted, casting a glance at the other mercenary.

“One down, one running,” Garth chuckled. Ulric’s mouth curled into a savage grin, for they had finally hurt the marauders. It felt good, turning the tables like that, but he suspected it wouldn’t last for long. He began to reload, grunting as he wrestled with the cords of his heavy weapons. “They’re probably doing the same as us,” Garth spoke after a while. “They wait for cover of darkness, then send everybody in at once, try to overwhelm…”

“What’s wrong?” Ulric snapped his head around, fearing that Garth had been struck by arrow. Instead, his eyes widened as he saw one of the corpses stir from where it sprawled against a mud-encrusted cart. “Fesul, you’re supposed to be dead,” he exclaimed, barking a hoarse laugh.

“Not dead,” the scrawny man croaked, rising up on his elbow. “What happened?” He shook his head woozily, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. Garth snatched up the man’s discarded helmet.

“Rhysol’s cock, would you look at that?” He turned it over, displaying the twisted concavity where a badly bent bodkin protruded. Ulric shook his head,

“Well, how about that,” Ulric grinned, scarcely believing the evidence of his own eyes. He grinned at Fesul. “How’s it feel to get shot in the noggin?” Fesul gave him a wan scowl.

“Bad,” he said sharply, then doubled over, spewing the contents of his stomach. Ulric waited until he was done, then tossed him a skin of wine that he’d found among the belongings of their intrepid, but dead caravan master.

“Go on, drink some of that,” he urged. Fesul took a deep swig, wiping his lips as he stared at the ruins of the caravan.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re at a stalemate,” Ulric explained, recalling that Fesul had gone down early. “Mara, Lars, and Jem are dead, not to mention the merchant, and that screwy mage we picked up a few days back.”

“What about the others”

“Kept dropping like flies.” Ulric jerked a thumb at the corpses stacked over his section of barricade. “We’re all that’s left, and we’re up against what… a dozen of the bastards?” Garth snorted.

“Something like that,” said the mercenary. “We bled them good, though.” Fesul scratched at muck caking one side of his face, mixed with the blood that began to trickle from his scalp wound again.

“They got wounded?”

“Some, but not many,” Ulric nodded. “We’re just trying to hang on until night, so we can get the petch out of here.”

“You mean, running with our tails between our legs?” Fesul snarled. “I’m not going anywhere until I crack a few heads.” Ulric was deeply shaken by these words. He’d never thought the man very daring, but making a last stand? He was a mercenary; he fought for coin, but he wasn’t supposed to die for the sake of wounded pride. Garth gave a shrug, and when he spoke, Ulric was shocked to find that he was alone in his disbelief.

“Now that Fes is back we ought to stand a fairly good chance,” the man cajoled. “Jem’s head was full of rocks. Fes, on the other hand, knows how to fight.” Ulric kept shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what Garth was saying. How could they risk their necks like this? Fesul’s defiance must’ve spread, and now they were asking him for the unthinkable; to lay down his life not only for the sake of greed, but also for the sake of vengeance against men who were probably just trying to survive.

We’re facing odds of at least three to one,” he spat, “And you want to stay and fight? This is madness.”

“Look, we can’t take the chest with us,” Garth argued. “Let’s face it, we’d probably get picked off even if we left it behind, and even if we did get away, we’d just end up broke, without supplies, in another mess of trouble.”

“Sometimes, you have to take a stand,” added Fesul.

“We could just take the spices,” Ulric started to protest, but he already knew that he wouldn’t be able to sway the other. He suddenly felt like a craven, a weakling. He prided himself on being pragmatic, but if there was one thing he hated, it was acting as a child would in front of men. “Fine, we see this one through,” he grumbled. “But we’re going to slaughter the petchers, down to the very last man.”

“Shyke on their corpses,” Garth sneered.

“Grind their bones,” said Fesul.

“Leave them for the worms,” Ulric sighed.

by **Ulric** on May 25th, 2011, 1:22 pm

Night came, and the forest was eerily silent. No owls hooted from the crooks of gnarled oaks. No rodents scurried through the brittle leaves. There was only the crackle of the fire, and the whisper of wind that stirred his lank hair. Apart from a few, desultory arrows that hissed through the shadows, the marauders had backed off. Ulric knew they were lurking somewhere. His nerves were slowly breaking, to the point where he wished for a final reckoning merely to end the suspense. Garth watched the front now and Fesul the back, leaving Ulric to fortify their position. He began with the gap under the wagons, under which, provided some distraction, an enemy could slither undetected. Using his shield, he tried to make a bulwark of earth, but this task was harder than he’d thought. Instead, he turned his axe upon the wagon frames, hacking until they canted to the side. Most of the cargo was already part of the barricade. Next, he began to gather bundles of fodder and scraps of cloth, soaking them in an urn of lamp oil before he brushed them against the fire. He threw them out into the night, using a long stick to keep from scorching his fingers. Where they landed, the beacons cast deep, writhing shadows.

“Should set the petching wagons on fire,” Fesul grunted, mostly in jest. Ulric had never understood the man’s sense of humor, so he just heaved another bundle through the murk. Garth scratched at his chin.

“I don’t know about you petchers, but the first thing I’m going to do when I get back is have me a woman, a nice, fair-haired one with huge tits. Not one of your dockside sluts, either. I’m going to get a fancy whore; the kind that speaks and dresses proper, and pretends she enjoys having you inside her. And then I’m going to get drunk, go home, and petch my wife.”

“Can’t do that sober?” Fesul was curious. “You’re not s’posed to pledge anything to a woman, you know.” Garth snorted.

“Pledgin’ don’t mean shyke.”

“Why not?” Ulric took a seat, leaning his heavy crossbow against his shoulder. Fesul, who wasn’t much with a regular bow, had taken the other weapon. Now, the mercenary barked a laugh.

“Because we get bored, you daft bugger. Do you want to be chained to a woman for the rest of your life? Because I don’t.”

“He’s just saying that,” Garth said with a grin, raising a brow at the smaller man. “There’s a reason he’s done with whores, y’know.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he’s pining for a sweet piece of arse, that’s why.”

Fesul began to speak, but no sooner had he parted his lips than the murk was thick with whistling arrows. Ulric felt a shaft brush past his ear, eyes widening as he saw another sink into the meat of Garth’s arm. He watched the mercenary clutch at the wound, cursing as he ducked to the ground. Ulric could make out shapes emerging from the shadowy forest, feral, ululating cries preceding their charge. Finally, the reckoning had come. They were badly outnumbered, but in that instant he didn’t give a shyke. The only thing he wanted was to slaughter these men for what they’d put him through. He stood, pointing his crossbow at the nearest marauder, and sent a bolt into the man’s chest that spun him completely around. “Come and get me,” he bellowed. An arrow scraped against his armor, making him stagger as he reached for his throwing axes.

Ulric was not afraid, as he usually was when he fought. He’d been afraid for the entire day, so that now he felt strangely empty, his fear swiftly replaced by rage. He flung one axe through the shadows, the haft spiraling after the head, right past a snarling face. Garth was back on his feet now, sending an arrow into the man’s throat. By now, they were both screaming like demons. Ulric hurled the next of his short, heavy axes, and this time the axe struck a glancing blow, snapping a marauder’s head back as glistening strands of blood wreathed the man’s shorn ear. Fesul was crying for help. Ulric quickly glanced at Garth, saw the mercenary turn around, groping for his sword. He heard the clangor of metal on metal, and then he was standing in front of the barricade, clutching bearded axe and shield as the first of the marauders leapt over the heap of sacks and blood, tangled corpses.

From then on, it was almost too easy. His shield rose, turning the man’s sword, and then his weapon was a blur, sweeping around to hack into the marauder’s exposed gut. He ripped his weapon away, letting the dying man strike the ground heavily, curling around his dreadful wound. Already, thick, bluish coils of intestines were spilling from the gaping wound. “Rhysol shrivel your cocks!” So far, the spears were doing their job. They had created a sort of choke point, a breach that only two men could crest at once. Even so, the marauders were already yanking the spears away. Ulric ducked as the next man leapt over the barricade, keeping his shield high as he leaned forward, taking out the man’s legs and making him tumble over his shoulder and sprawl on the ground. His axe was already streaking down, lodging in the back of the man’s head.

Ulric felt gore splash his face. His axe was stuck, so he left it there, swiping the next man with the rim of his shield as he spun back around. He’d put his entire weight into the blow, so he wasn’t surprised when the man staggered back, crimson sluicing from a deep gash on his cheek. His hand was already closing on the sword he’d taken from the merchant. He tore it from the sheath he’d cinched awkwardly around his waist, deflecting a thrusting spear point with his shield, and lunged. He drove the sword into the man he’d struck earlier, not stopping until flesh closed around the hilt, and gave a savage twist. Hot, sticky blood spurted over his hand. He felt the spear drag against his scaled armor.

More, he wanted more. He was consumed by a lust for blood, a savage keening erupting from the depths of his throat. He left the sword where it was, his hand groping for the shaft of the spear. It was too slippery. He snarled as the tapering head cut a deep gash in his palm, retreating a few paces as his fingers closed on the shaft of his last throwing axe. The spearman made a feint, and then he was joined by a marauder swinging a great, flanged mace. “Die, you sons of whores,” he growled. He flung the axe, and at such close range he couldn’t miss. Not that it mattered, for the maceman was clad in mail and heavy, boiled leather that absorbed the brunt of the impact. His face betrayed the pain, though. With a snarl, Ulric retreated another step, raising his shield to catch the mace. He grimaced at the bone-numbing impact, which sent a painful shock running down his entire arm, and then the spear pierced the meat of his shoulder. He bared his teeth. He’d taken worse and lived, but the agony was always unbearable. There were two men in front of him now. Even though he was wary of both their weapons, he knew that unless he got inside of their range, his life was forfeit.

Ulric surged forward, his fingers closing around the haft of the bearded axe where it protruded from the corpse’s head, and drove the rounded boss of his shield into the maceman’s face. Then the shaft of the mace came around, striking him a heavy blow to the side of the head. The spear piercing his armor again, scraping off his ribs. He gave a hoarse cry, recoiling as blood seeped down the length of his arm and began to soak his trousers. With a snarl, he moved to put the maceman between himself and the spear, scything his axe around the man’s leg. He managed to hook an ankle, then retreated swiftly as the mace whistled past his face, taking the marauder down. His shield swept around, knocking the spear point aside at it flashed at his eyes. “Go on, run away,” he snarled as he hacked down, his axe biting into the maceman’s neck as he sought to rise. There was a gout of blood, and then the man stiffened. That was enough for the spearman. He took a quick glance around the clearing and fled.

Ulric turned around. Fesul and Garth had made short work of the other marauders, with the exception of a spare, gray man who they’d backed away from the barricade. He kept swinging a rusty greatsword to keep them at bay, exposing his back. Ulric let his shield drop the ground. He strode up to the man, chest heaving as he sought to regain his breath, and drove a heavy boot into the back of a knee. The marauder dropped to his knees, a cry bursting from his lips as the sword pitched from his grasp. Ulric tangled a hand in the man’s stringy hair, yanking back his head, and placed the curve of his axe against the his throat. “Don’t move,” he growled, then peered at his comrades. They were soaked with gore, their faces bruised and scratched from the desperate fight, but they didn’t seem any worse for the wear. Fesul was favoring his right leg. “What do you think?”

“Finish him,” Fesul said. He strode a few paces forward, brandishing his sword. “Go on, if you haven’t the stones for it, let me give him a second grin.” Ulric peered uncertainly at Garth. Like him, the mercenary seemed conflicted. They had reason enough to finish the prisoner, but on the other hand, what purpose would it serve? The man was clearly forced by poverty.

“Ah, petch it,” grunted Garth. “He’d just make more trouble for us.” Ulric’s eyes bored into the back of the prisoner’s head, his arm shaking as he readied the coup de grace. And yet, no matter what he told himself, he knew this wasn’t right.

“Get out of here,” he snarled, taking the axe away. The man didn’t need any more encouragement. Ulric watched him vanish into the gloom, not caring about the curses Fesul flung at his face. “He wasn’t a danger,” he said acidly.

“What are you, a petching knight?” Fesul gave him a shove. “For all we know, he might be the ringleader, and here you are-”

“Enough.” Garth barked. “Why fight, when we can divide up the spoils?” He held up the chest. Fesul gave a snort, but he couldn’t stifled the grin that spread over his thin lips. Ulric breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t looking forward to fighting with his comrades. Taking a seat on a corpse, he watched the mercenary stick a knife into the lock, trying to wrench open the lid. “Leave it, before you snap the damned thing,” Garth ordered. He took a heavy axe from the ground and swung it at the chest. Soon, the wood began to splinter. Garth knelt, forcing open the battered hinges with his fingers, and they all peered into the cloth-lined interior. Ulric made out a few, slack bags of coins, and some other parcels and papers. Not nearly the wealth he’d been expecting.

“What the petch is this?” Fesul cursed. “This isn’t even enough to pay my wage, let alone you bastards.” Garth also seemed upset. Ulric frowned, not entirely convinced by the contents.

“Hold on.” He reached into the chest, his fingers searching for a few moments before they found the catch to a false bottom. “How about that?” he chuckled. There were more sacks of coins there, and a pouch that, when opened, revealed the sparkle of gems.

He wasn’t expecting what came next.

Something crashed on the back of his head, a suddenly the world exploded in a burst of white lights. He was floating. His could make out faint whispers.

“Why don’t we finish him?”

“Just take the money and go.”

“He’s going to come after us.”

“What of it? He won’t get far.”

Then everything faded to black.

by **Ulric** on August 18th, 2011, 2:36 am

Ulric dreamt that he was striding across a vast expanse of tundra, beneath a swirling, ruby sky. The snow crunched beneath his boots. Far off, he could make out the dark splotches of herds, constantly on the move. There were no birds. To the right, he thought he discerned the long, waving grasses of a salt marsh, while to the left was a distant spine of gray-shrouded peaks. He was alone, save the skirling winds. He trudged along, pale frost riming his beard, not knowing why he was here, or where he was headed. “What is this place?” He finally spoke, chafing gloved hands to drive the icy stiffness from his fingers. The question of where did not leap to his mind, for he knew instinctively that he was dreaming, and had been for far too long already. And yet, he didn’t know the way out.

Slowly, he shambled over patches of ice and heaped snow, arms extended slightly to retain his balance. Every so often, he felt a boot break through the uneven crust and suddenly he was thigh deep in snow, flesh burning where it leached into the gaps of his clothing. There was also the threat of plunging into a crevasse. Even though he knew this was a dream, he couldn’t shake the fear of death.

Soon, it began to snow. He kept on going, despite his dwindling field of vision. That was the only thing he could do. As he trudged up a sloping rise, an unfamiliar scene kept flashing before his eyes. There was a narrow room of plaster and painted ceramic tiles where an ebon-skinned woman stood before a wood trestle. Her bearing was proud and erect. She wore a flowing white shift that fastened over one shoulder by a simple bronze pin, and her hair was bound in tight braids atop her head. He saw her lift an earthen vessel and pour a measure of thick, sticky honey into a bowl, while a tow-headed child played in a corner. The child had found a knife. He wanted to shout a warning, but every time he opened his mouth nothing came out. The woman just swung her eyes over to him, shockingly white irises suffused by a hint of trickery, and then everything would vanish – only to coalesce a few moments later with slightly more detail. Ulric kept noticing new things, such as the way shafts of sunlight filtered through the broad windows, or specks of rust on a nail, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. He was certain the room held the key, but where was it concealed? As he scrutinized the fine tracery of lines around the woman’s mouth, he came to realize that she greatly perturbed him. She didn’t seem to hold any malice toward him, but he couldn’t shake his doubts.

Abruptly, the woman and the room vanished. He found himself perched on a heap of rubble that was half-buried by snow banks, which he speculated were the remains of some forlorn citadel. The ring of a child’s laughter echoed in the back of his head. Through a shroud of opalescent flakes, he discerned a lonely menhir in the distance, squat and gray and bleak, ringed by tufts of desiccated, frost-rimed flora. The wind scraped past his reddening ears. They were already numb. His entire body was numb, but not from the cold. He rose, mouth twisting into a scowl as he surveyed this aberration in the undulating terrain. The menhir rose ominously through the swirling snows. He did not desire to go there, but a profound sense of purpose drove him ever onward. The snow crunched beneath his boots. Hot breath escaped his nose and mouth in swirling clouds of vapor. The silence was deafening.

“Corn.” Turning, dark eyes fastened upon the crow perching on a hummock of dried grass that protruded from the snow, pecking desolately at a dead shrew. “Corn” The crow spoke again.

Talking crows. That wasn’t something you saw every day.

Ulric reached into his pockets, finding them empty but for a few coins. “I don’t have any,” he rasped, making to shunt the crow aside. “Go on, away with you.” The crow merely spread its wings and drew back, staying in the path he sought to follow. Amber eyes regarded him curiously.

“Seek only that which you do not wish to find, and perhaps your search will not be in vain.”

“You’re a bird,” Ulric frowned again. “You’re not supposed to give advice. And besides, I don’t need to be told what to do. I forge my own destiny.” He strode a few paces forward, then hesitated. The crow’s beak was slightly ajar when it cocked its head.

“Destiny is not forged, only written.”

“So?”

“You speak of forging, yet not once have you sat down to bench and crafted a legacy. Nor are you endowed with the power to set quill to that parchment.”
With that, the crow directed another peck at the shrew. Ulric gritted his teeth.

“What’s the purpose of this cryptic shyke? I don’t understand what you’ve just told me, and I certainly don’t want to listen to any more. If you just want to bandy words, you can go petch yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” replied the crow, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Ulric watched as it took to the skies, shaking his head. He grunted wryly. There was no sense in prophecy.

Ulric walked for what seemed like forever, left only to vague thoughts and mist of stale memory, until he reached the menhir. There, seated upon the great boulder, was a woman clad entirely in white furs, her large overboots dangling over the tapering ledge. Her face was tan and flat, with a tiny nose and broad cheekbones. Her eyes were bright and lambent, their color shifting with every passing moment. They were a soft lilac, flecked with gold, but every now and then they reflected a deeper shade of purple. The crow was perched on her left shoulder. The woman glanced up as he neared, her face inscrutable. Ulric stared up at them, absently scratching the unkempt beard that covered his chin. He had to squint against the wind, but he kept his head raised. The woman watched him for a long while before she finally spoke.

“Kradus informs me that you are quite obstinate.” Her tone was melodic, yet while it was chiding, he didn’t perceive any enmity.

“Really?” Ulric gave a shrug. “Go figure.”

“And disrespectful.” Her face, which had until now seemed carved from ice, betrayed a hint of regret. “That is most unfortunate. There is much you could do if you didn’t distance yourself from others.”

“And why should I respect you? I’d rather not hear anything you have to say. I have a feeling that it’s going to be cryptic, and I’ve always been of the opinion that too much thinking is bad for a person. I’d be happier if I was stupid, but I can’t do much about that, eh? If you want honesty, let’s just say the only thing I really care about is finding out what’s under your furs. I can’t say that I’m going to climb up there, though. I’m not good at climbing.” The woman didn’t show the least sign of discomfort at his remarks.

“So you’d prefer the world to be a simple place, devoid of complexity? How pathetic.”

“Does it really matter what I prefer?” Ulric cocked his head. “The world never asks me what I want.”

“You could change the world, you know,” said the woman. “You need only reach out and grasp that power. If you did not seek to defy the person that you were meant to become, you would not despair as you do now.”

“Why should I despair?” Ulric scowled. Her words didn’t make much sense, but they made him uneasy for some reason. The woman simply made a steeple of her slender fingers.

“You must find that out for yourself.”

“You’re a frigid bitch,” Ulric snarled, again tiring of talking in circles with a person that was a figment of his dream. “I’m done speaking to you. I want to leave now.” The woman shrugged, and for once her mouth parted in a scant smile.

“You only had to ask.”

The first thing he noticed was the light. The sun rose overhead, forcing him to close his eyes against the glare. Something wasn’t right. He felt rough hands fumbling with the straps of his armor, trying to drag away the heavy, scaled leather. He groaned softly. A corpse-picker, he realized, the thought slowly coalescing at the back of his head. His eyes fluttered open again, to behold a broad, whiskered face, stained teeth clenched with effort. Had the man not been so sure that he was dead, he might have had the good sense to run away, or at least seek to finish the job with a well-placed knife. Ulric’s hand shot out, grasping the man’s collar with a mad, desperate strength. There was a startled cry. The picker sought to jerk away, his eyes wide with horror at seeing a corpse come to life, but Ulric’s grip was firm. He tore his knife from its sheath and thrust the tip into the picker’s neck, sawing through tendon and bone. Hot blood sprayed onto his face, but he didn’t care. “Get away from me,” he snarled, his voice hoarse and heavy with rage. He shoved the dying picker away, then rose unsteadily to his feet.

The corpses spread over a carpet of desiccated leaves, limbs bent grotesquely, their face twisted in a grim rictus of dead. Those that sprawled on their backs had eyes that were simultaneously empty and bulging. The crows feasted, their greedy beaks tearing at shreds of bloody meat. He could make out the gleam of exposed ribs. The wagons remained, or at least their charred husks. The few brigands that had survived had stripped most of the corpses and taken the remaining supplies.

Flies swarmed.

Ulric stared at his palms, encrusted with dark, flaking dried blood, and then flipped the haft of his axe so he grasped it slightly below the curved head. The leather grip was comforting to touch, but he couldn’t shake the penetrating sense of weakness. He’d been defeated because of his own stupidity, because he’d dared to trust men that survived by leeching the blood and tears of others. There was nothing worse than being betrayed. That he’d been expecting it made his fate even harder to bear. They’d fought by his side, then turned on him for a glint of silver and gold. Ulric found that the shock he’d felt upon awaking was slowly wearing away, leaving him bitter. He was consumed by fury, his nostrils flaring, knuckles white where they gripped the axe. He sucked in a deep breath, shoulders bunching and armor creaking, and stared at his worn boots. The leather was cracking, smearing with mud and speckled with globules of dried blood. They were the boots of a man used to rough living, and he had the calluses as proof. There would be no replacing them if he snuck away with tail tucked between legs. There would be no warm embraces in the dark of night, nor a jingle of coins during the day. He wouldn’t accept that without a fight.

With a grunt, he went to recover what weapons he could, including the crossbow and a few bolts, and then set off through the forest. He began at a walk, then slowly moved to a trot, trampling briars and ferns as he made his way through the swaying, lichen-covered trunks. Twigs crackled. Jagged stones shifted beneath his boots and low-hanging creepers sought to ensnare his ankles, but he kept moving. The axe and shield jostled him, dealing sharp raps to his leather-encumbered hips. He was forced to cradle the heavy crossbow in his arms, reducing his sense of balance and making his trot ungainly. His chest began to heave. He sought to focus on drawing deep breaths through his nostrils and forcing them out his mouth, especially as he scaled a heavily wooded ridge that was also studded with boulders. There were more briars tangled around the rocks, entwined with a labyrinth of twisted branches and downed, rotting trunks. He kept going until he reached the summit, then kept going as the breath rasped in his throat. Hot sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the curve of his spine. And yet, his legs kept churning, kept drawing him nearer to his prey – or so he dared to hope. The wind rushed through his coarse hair and whistled through faintly in his ears.

There was no halting now.

There was only the torrid coursing of blood through his veins, even as the stitch in his side ached worse with every step. He didn’t know how far he’d gone before he became aware of tiny black specks dancing across his field of vision, their chaotic twists and pirouettes forcing him to confront the bitter truth that he hadn’t recovered from the blow he’d sustained to the back of his head. He began to falter, eyes narrowing as the seeds of doubt sprouted in his mind. Slowly, he came to a half and took a knee. His chest heaved as he leaned again the stock of his crossbow, which he’d planted firmly upon the ground. While he waited for his breathing to slow, he sought to focus on the sounds emanating from the forest, the clack-clack-clack of a woodpecker rising above the rustling leaves. The knobby trunks creaked and groaned in the wind. Here the ground was rough and uneven, with heaps of tumbled rock that sprawled haphazardly among a few grey monoliths, partly sheathed in pale lichen, their surfaces dark and damp where they curved inward to form ledges. He observed that there was a profusion of fungi, and his stomach began to growl as he realized that he hadn’t eaten for nearly a day. But there wasn’t time for that.

Ulric glanced at his surroundings, seeking to take in every feature as he sought to get his bearings. The trunks and strewn branches defied his reckoning. They were redolent of sap and moldering leaves, yet he discerned the faint stench of putrefaction carried upon the wind. There was a carcass nearby.

That was when he observed the track by his right heel. He stiffened, a scowl creeping across his face as he bent down for closer scrutiny. He wasn’t certain what to look for, at least in terms of direction or how recently it was made, but there was no mistaking what it was. He crept forward on his knees, seeking other tracks. He found a few others, mostly faint or damaged, and a twig that had trodden by a heavy boot. That was enough for him to develop a vague sense of range. If his reasoning was solid, the tracks wound to the north, cleaving through the rougher ground. He pursued them for a handful of chimes, doubling back more than once, for he was highly wary of losing his way. Ulric was in luck, for every time he began to despair, he seemed to come upon a sign of his prey. The reek of decay became stronger. Halting, he lowered the crossbow and thrust a boot into the metal stirrup, grasping the taut length of cord in both hands. His back and shoulder muscles bunched as he drew it over the catch, and then fumbled for a quarrel to slide into the groove.

Looking up, he began to move again, his steps swift but cautious. He didn’t want to turn astray. With a grunt, he shambled up a sinuous spur of granite. Here the reek was slightly heavier. His gut was uneasy, and somehow he knew it was related to his pursuit. He took care to skirt the higher ground and doubled back, seeking to glean more from the tracks which, since the start of his ascent, he’d been unable to discern. His tunic, already sodden with sticky, half-dried sweat, was chafing, but he forced himself to keep going. This was much a test of his resolve as his endurance and wits.

Ulric was so absorbed by his search that he nearly missed a glint of metal from beneath the dense covering of leaves. He came to an abrupt halt. His smoldering eyes flicked over the shadowy ranks of trees as he crouched over the spot. His fingers brushed against steel, and then he was hauling a sword from the leaves. He observed that it was of fairly good quality, despite the nicks, and that the hilt was wrapped with a familiar criss-cross of brown and tan leather. His brow furrowed, and his lips curled into a frown.

With a snarl, he hurled the sword aside. Garth would never have left it behind. He quivered with rage for a long time before regaining his composure. “Betrayal sows betrayal,” he growled, and then continued on his way.

Nearly a half-bell later, he found the mercenary with his back against a trunk, burly arms and chest sheathed with dark, congealing blood. Ulric strode nearer, lowering the crossbow to point at the ground. He thought the man was dead at first, but then his eyelids cracked open. Ulric saw that his skin was waxen, and while his face was haggard and drawn, he was very much alive. The gaping wound in his belly would have slain a lesser man. Ulric could see the wet, bluish gleam of ropes of intestine, threatening to slither between the man’s splayed fingers. Garth’s chest rose in a spasmodic heave, a thin froth of blood threatening to leak from his mouth as he clutched at his guts. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“You look like shyke.” Ulric regarded his former comrade with a steely gaze, although inwardly he felt a pang of sympathy. This wasn’t a clean death. He wanted the man to suffer for his betrayal, but even he would have given him a coup de grace rather than let him die in this manner. Up close, the reek of shyke and putrefying flesh clung heavily to the air, choking him. Garth responded with a wan grimace.

“I’ve been better,” he rasped, a deep gurgle emanating from the depths of his throat. His head shunted to the side, fever-bright eyes rolling wildly. “He got me first, the… bastard.” A bubble of blood burst on his lips. Ulric scowled.

“This didn’t need to happen, you know.” He paused, seeking to remember when they might’ve begun to conspire against him. “If you hadn’t done me back there, we could’ve split the loot and gone our separate ways.”

“You… wouldn’t understand.” For some reason, the man’s lips curled up slightly, in the semblance of an absurd, crimson grin. Ulric spat on the ground.

“That’s all you have to say?” His words dripped with contempt.

“Just do it,” Garth grunted. He turned his head away. “Do it, damn you.”

“Very well, then,” Ulric said. He raised the crossbow, faltering for just a moment when the eyes flicked back to him, and then let the quarrel fly. The barbed missile whistled through the air and took the man square in the forehead, skewering him to the tree. “Farewell, you sack of shyke,” he sighed, a touch of melancholy seeping into his voice, and then he turned away. There would be no cairn of rocks, nor a grave hastily scratched into the rocky earth. The crows would feast again.

Far off in the distance, through the thin canopy of leaves that covered the ride, he discerned wisps of smoking rising against the darkening sky. Ulric let out a chuckle. “And now it ends,” he said, breaking into a trot.

by **Ulric** on August 21st, 2011, 8:37 pm

The descent was even worse. The ground was strewn with boulders and pitched sharply at various angles, forcing him to pick his way slowly along narrow tracks and heaps of scree. His face soon twisted in a grimace. With every step of his descent, he felt a sharp jolt of agony in his knees. He fought to keep moving, but his legs were leaden and it was a struggle to draw breath. “Petching legs,” he snarled, and stared off through a gap in the trees. The glow of the fire was nearer, but soon the dark of night began to close in around him and made it seem further away. He slowed down, feeling his way over the rough ground. His boots hovered for brief moments before he placed them down. The murk was only broken by the soft blush of Leth that sifted through the canopy of leaves, weaving a tapestry of writhing shadows.

Ulric reached the base of the ridge, where a stream ran past squat crags of rock, and paused for a drink. He thrust his cupped hands into the frigid waters, nearly recoiling from the shock, then brought them to his crackled lips. He drank deeply, then got to his feet, retrieving his crossbow from the damp leaves, and forced his legs to move. High above, he thought he discerned the rush of an owl through the trees. The quiet was also broken by the drone of cicadas, while the soft mutter of the wind was barely enough to stir the shadowy leaves.

Hastening, he made his way toward the glow. Even from afar, he was able to detect a prick of light through the dense trunks. He moved as fast as he dared, lurching over the uneven ground with an uncertain, yet frantic gait. However, something was bothering him. He came to a deliberate halt, for the moment resting his weary legs. If he’d been that far from the flames, why were they visible? Fesul wasn’t brash enough to make such a large fire or so remiss as to neglect concealing his presence at night. Ulric began to get that uneasy feeling in his gut once more. He knew better than to rush in and hack his way to revenge. No, he’d have to be wary.

Ulric crept through the dense ranks of trees, his boots making so much noise as they trod on the damp carpet of leaves and twigs that he was sure the din would betray his presence. However, he was proven wrong. He slowly came to the edge of the orange ring, using a squat pine to conceal the contours of his body as he studied the scene before him. Fesul was bound to a tree, his narrow face bruised and bloody, a gag thrust in his mouth. To one side, he made out the shapes of horses tethered to an overhanging bough. There were several men crouched around the fire, clad in leather and motley piece of metal they’d no doubt scavenged. Their faces were pinched and dirty, but their weapons were in good repair. They were sorting through the contents of the chest. He made out the soft clink of coins, and the bawdy, wine-soaked laughter of the men as they passed around a quickly shrinking skin. “That’s my money,” Ulric growled. He didn’t feel like waiting for them to go to sleep. He wanted them dead.

His quarrel hissed past their faces, continuing on until it stuck, quivering, in a moss-covered trunk. The reaction was instant. They shouted with surprise, reaching for their weapons as they rose and searched wildly through the shadows. For some reason, there was a lengthy delay before the first scampered for cover. Ulric stuck his foot in the crossbow’s stirrup and reached for the length of cord, loading the weapon as swiftly as he could, and sent another quarrel whistling vainly after them. “Petch this,” he snarled, throwing the crossbow aside in disgust, and reached for his axe. He wasn’t tired any more. He was consumed by rage and a lust to shed blood over the leaves. “Come and get me, you bastards!” He roared as he broke cover, eating up the ground between them. His first opponent sought to skewer him, so he just brought the shield around, making the sword point skitter away, and brought the axe down on the region between the man’s shoulder and neck. The man’s legs trembled, but he remained standing, staring in shock at the haft sprouting from his body. Ulric knew it was stuck fast, so he left it there and reached for a throwing axe as the second rose from where he’d been sheltering behind a heap of brush. Out of the corner of his eye, Ulric saw the third heading for the horses, the chest bundled firmly under an arm. He needed to move swiftly. Setting his feet, he grunted as he twisted his body around, using both hips and shoulder to hurl the axe squarely into the chest of his opponent. The man nearly halted, his mace arm falling as his teeth gritted in agony, but he kept coming – his charge slowing to a stagger. Ulric was already moving forward. He brought his shield around, slashing the rim into the man’s face so he dropped like a sack of rocks, and hurled the other axe as hard as he could, trying to take down the other before he could get a foot over the horse’s back.

But he was too late.

The horse reared, the throwing axe flew wide, and he was left watching the horse and rider disappear into the shadows. He’d come so close, only to fail at the last moment.

Ulric’s gut gave a lurch. He felt empty, and he almost wanted to cry. The problem was that crying was for women. “And who’s to blame for this?” he whispered, his face curling into an ugly sneer. “And who’s to blame?” He was almost shouting now. He began to advance on Fesul, taking a sick pleasure in watching the man squirm, his eyes wide and wild with fear. “Do you know the answer, friend?” He thrust his face forward so they were almost touching. Then his grin broadened. “Of course you do,” he laughed, and thrust his knife into the man’s gut, tearing it open so he could feel the heat of the entrails against his flesh. Fesul’s screams were stifled by the gag, but his eyes said enough. “Don’t get greedy,” Ulric clucked his tongue. He let the knife drop, then reached both hands into the warm, gaping cavity, yanking forth the ropes of guts, which he wound around the man’s neck. “Now piss off,” he said, and began choking the life from his betrayer.

This was not a nightmare. This was justice.

by **Archelon** on September 3rd, 2011, 7:20 am

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