Inspired by Icy Mike Molson's 'The Road Less Traveled'. A sort of character-sketch prelude to a very unconventional Diablo II fic that will hopefully see the light of day soon. Enjoy.
reave: to take away by force; plunder; pillage; rob
reaver: one who reaves
As the ale flowed, so did the conversation wax philosophical.
"I knew a man in Kehjistan," the old man mused aloud, idly twirling his wispy beard around a gnarled finger, "of whom you remind me a great deal. Pardon me if that seems presumptuous, I'm sure it must. When you reach an age such as mine, the faces of your life—both figurative and literal—tend to run together. Yours and his stand out though. I wonder why…"
The dark-skinned man across the table frowned. "If you're going to try and solicit something from me, grandfather—"
The old man chuckled, cutting him off. "Worry not, friend. Forgive me the ramblings of the elderly; one day you will understand, I hope." He picked up his mug and threw his head back, guzzling wholeheartedly. Wiping his mouth he returned his gaze to his tablemate.
"Kehjistan… They have rituals and customs as would stupefy even the most liberal-minded here in Lut Gholein," he remarked. "But then, you would know all about that, would you not?"
The dark-skinned man shifted uncomfortably, but the old man continued seamlessly.
"As I was saying, I knew a man in Kehjistan who traveled the breadth of the land searching for answers, from the uttermost lands of the East to the farthest tip of Westmarch. A polymath of sorts, I daresay he impressed more than a few with his latent ability, and vexed them all the same with his lack of conviction." The old man paused for a moment, fingers absentmindedly drumming out a staccato beat on the table. "It is conviction that guides us; without it we are lost."
"Conviction?" his audience asked, wearing a guarded expression.
The old man nodded. "Indeed. It is what drives us, and justifies our actions, whether to ourselves or others. Conviction—" And he paused again, and for a moment, a tiny instant, the shadows around them deepened and the dark-skinned man found himself staring not into eyes, but into two pools of blazing light, molten in their intensity. It was as if a heavy veil had descended, muting all noise and thought but for the vision before him. They were so bright that he had to look away, and when he looked back, blinking spots from his eyes, the vision was gone, and the old man sat obliviously sipping spilled ale from his beard.
"Excuse my manners," the old man said cheerily. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Doubly so, in fact; my manners seem to have fled today. I haven't even introduced myself, and here I've been dispensing advice like some clucked sage." He shook his head bemusedly. "The nerve of me. My name is—"
___
Messerschmidt's Reaver
i
The wagon bounced awkwardly through a deep rut in the dusty road, causing the wooden axles to creak in protest and upsetting several items that weren't lashed down. The few passengers that rode along were jolted rather uncomfortably, prompting several oaths and insults directed at the wagoner, who responded in kind, shaking the reigns as he hurled obscenities back over his shoulder. The camels responded in kind as well, braying with annoyance and adding further to the din typical of an extensive caravan.
It was slow going in the desert. The sandy sweeps and rocky mesas were not ideal terrain for wagons laden with goods and supplies, and great care had to be taken to avoid sand traps and sinkholes. This demanded a more or less single file line, which exacerbated the dust that each successive wagon had to face. The camels could not be pushed too hard, for even they would succumb to the harsh climate, and the caravan was as good as stranded without them.
And in the Aranoch, stranded meant death.
From within a covered wagon situated near the tail end of the wagon train Pollux the mercenary awoke, hunched over and leaning on his sheathed bastard sword as a brace, the long, tightly braided strands of his dark hair hanging loose around his face and pooling in front of him. For a few minutes he sat still, his large cloak spread beneath him for padding, idly fingering the dented pommel of his weapon and half-listening to the ambient noise of the wide, spoke wheels as they churned their way across desert ground. Eventually deciding that he would be unable to resume his rest, the tall, ebon-skinned man blinked away the dust and rheum that had accumulated in his eyes and willed his senses to come fully alive.
A deep chuckle brought his attention to a man sitting across and to his left near the rear of the wagon, a large, beefy specimen with a long mustache and cropped hair that was plastered to a chubby face. An undersized vest bared his impressive belly to view, bursting over the top of a purple sash and white pants. Most people didn't take much notice of the spherical mace hanging from that sash, but more would do well to do so. Wajid might seem a jolly oaf, but Pollux knew his measure, and knew firsthand how dangerous a man he was.
"So the legendary 'Shaula' does sleep, eh?" Wajid said in a rumbling voice. "And deeply at that! Were your dreams sweet, blackface?" He chuckled again, patting his stomach amusedly. "Although the dreams that a chabra like you might have are beyond poor Wajid's understanding.
Pollux ignored the insult and self-referential chatter. Wajid was no fool either, as much as he might like to play one. Sitting up straight he crossed his legs and leaned back against the wooden sideboard, resting his head lightly on the tough fabric that was stretched across the curving, skeletal frame above them. The cover muted the relentless glare of the sun, though little could be done to alleviate the heat. The wagon was large, thankfully, and even stacked high with supplies there was plenty of room for the two men, two of the many protectors of the caravan. They were the mercenaries of Lut Gholein: admired and reviled in equal parts, but always highly sought after.
That most of them had fought and attempted to kill one another in the past—distant and recent—was a minor detail. He and Wajid had clashed no less than four times.
It was an interesting dynamic, though not very significant. The mercenaries of Lut Gholein rarely let bygones interfere with work; it was bad for business. Thus most grievances were settled with vilely spoken expletives and racial epithets such as Wajid was fond of, occasionally dipping into harmless fisticuffs in dilapidated back-alleys. In essence, nothing was settled, but business rolled on smoothly.
"Any word?" Pollux asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"Want to fight, thicknose?" the big man mused. "Wajid agrees, but thinks the chance will not come." He spat a glob of darkened spit out the open backside of the wagon, watching as it disappeared into the dust kicked up by its rumbling passage. "None have seen nor heard tell of Maryam's band in a pashki."
Pollux scoured his memory for a moment before remembering that 'pashki' was a period of time roughly forty days. It was a long time as far as Maryam was concerned.
Wajid chewed thoughtfully on whatever he held in his mouth before spitting again and grinning at Pollux, revealing a row of stained teeth. "Maybe the desert finally suffocated that shawarza, eh?"
Pollux was not familiar with that particular term, but was sure that Wajid was heartfelt in his denouncement of Maryam, the desert bandit queen who had plagued trade from Lut Gholein for much of recent memory. Out of habit he loosed a clasp on the wagon's cover and raised it to inspect the surrounding terrain. The rocky wastes that bordered Lut Gholein had finally receded into a vast series of high, windswept dunes and dry, hilly country. The Dry Hills was the common name among traders for this section of the route, and extended most of the rest of the way until the Tamoe mountain range and the pass that led into the Western Kingdoms. Ambush country was well past them, but underestimating the shifting sands of the Aranoch was never advisable.
"Who is Wormwood?" Wajid asked.
The question caught Pollux off guard, and he let the cover drop. The startled look on his face was at odds with his heavy, protruding brow and sunken eyes. "What?"
"In your sleep, you muttered the name, at least Wajid thinks it is a name. A lover, perhaps?" The blackened teeth were bared again. "You like small boys, fishmouth?"
When Pollux did not answer, Wajid barked in laughter. The large man proceeded to set a pouch and a small jar on the platform before him. He reached into the pouch and withdrew a pinch of dried desert herbs that held a sharp pungency about them. Crumbling them carefully between the fingers of one hand, he dipped two fingers of the other into the jar, coating them in a thick, tarry substance. Opening his mouth wide he bunched the herbs between his bottom lip and teeth and drizzled a little of the viscous liquid on top. He closed his mouth and smiled widely.
"There is nothing quite like fresh pujil, eh?" he said thickly.
The javelin missed Wajid's head by mere inches, puncturing the covering with an ominous hiss and exiting the other side in a flash.
An instant later a glass vial flew through the rent and shattered between the two men, scattering hot, flaming oil over the wooden slats and spattering Wajid's pants, which took flame easily. With a loud cry of pain the rotund man spit out his pujil and tumbled over the back of the wagon out of Pollux's view. Pollux heard a loud thud as the other mercenary hit the ground, but had no thoughts to spare for his colleague. Abandoning his cloak to the spreading flames he scrambled to collect his sword and buff coat, the yellow-beige jacket of thick suede cowhide that was his armor of choice. Grabbing both items he leapt out the back after Wajid, barely avoiding a second projectile that exploded in a shower of volatile chemicals and sparks.
Almost immediately he was forced into a crouch as more javelins tracked his movements. Dark shapes were descending the dunes bordering the road and bounding towards the wagons, quick and agile in their movements. Loud yells filled the air, both screams of terror from travelers and the harsh cries of the attackers. The entire procession was besieged from the sound of it, and Pollux cursed.
Out of the fire and into a bigger one.
Time to make pay, he thought grimly. He heaved himself to his feet as one of the attackers rushed him, and received his second shock of the day.
They were cats. Large, humanoid cats, wielding weapons. By itself that was a surprising sight, but for Pollux it was only half the cause of his startlement. The gods of irony must have been watching him closely, because he had seen such cats before.
The feline pounced. Pollux dropped his coat and swung a wide, two-handed stroke with his still sheathed sword. Much to Pollux's surprise the beast caught the weapon, forcing him into a grapple to keep hold of it. Rancid breath washed over him and flecks of spittle dotted his face. The creature was shorter than him by half a foot, but gave every insistence of being just as strong as he. His booted feet slid, and he was actually forced back a step. What the hell…
Summoning up reserves of strength he rarely tapped Pollux shoved the cat back and off balance, yanking his sword free and smashing the hilt into the creature's head, braining it with a wet thunk. The beast dropped like a sack of stones.
Similar scenes played out up along the rest of the cavalcade, with vastly differing results. The front end had almost literally disintegrated under a veritable wave of the felines, and the mercenaries stationed there had been overrun. Here and there a pocket of resistance formed, but most were broken up by swarms of javelins and fulminating potions. The scattered individuals were easy prey for the hunters. The air grew hotter with fire and smoke, the wagon train lit up like a row of obscene funeral pures.
All thought fled him as instincts took over. Whipping the sheath off his sword he set himself as three more of the creatures darted towards him, one slightly ahead of the others. The frontrunner carried a small buckler and a curved saber, and hissing its hatred prepared to attack.
Silhouetted against the backdrop of the wagon aflame he waited, tuning out the screams of the camels still tethered to the burning carriage and the shouts and grunts of the pitched battle waged up and down the line. Breathing deeply and steadily he waited, sword lowered and angled back, tensing the sinewy muscles of his back and shoulders, flexing the hard, corded muscle of his bare arms. Eyes narrowed, he waited.
As the feline reared to strike he whipped up and around in a powerful two-handed blow, a taut spring uncoiling, using his long arms and the superior reach of his weapon to shear through the small shield and bite deep into the junction of neck and shoulder. His long hair arced around him as he tore halfway through the ribcage in a spray of blood and viscera before the sword lodged on bone. The cat crumpled immediately, the downward stroke robbing much of its momentum and slamming the body to the ground at his feet.
The two other cats were upon him in seconds. He had been too strong with his first blow, and finding it stuck fast was forced to let go and duck the oncoming spear thrust. The cat kicked at him viciously, knocking the wind from him and gouging his skin deeply with wickedly curved claws that retracted an instant later. Gasping for breath on his back, Pollux instinctively rolled and barely avoided being spitted, but his motion was halted as the third cat stomped down hard on his chest, claws digging in forcefully. Sunken eyes gazed up at imminent death, widening imperceptibly as his would-be slayer jerked violently and fell down dead. The second cat yowled in surprise and looked around before succumbing to the same fate, and this time Pollux barely made out the blur of the bolt that penetrated the feline's head.
"On your feet, 'Shaula'," a voice called out. A man nearly as tall as himself and carrying a long spear trotted up, casting wary glances all around. Hazade.
Wincing with discomfort Pollux still managed to rise fluidly, uncoiling his lean six-and-a-half foot frame in one motion, one hand stemming the blood flowing from the gashes in his chest and stomach. Gripping his sword he worked it free from the corpse.
"We must flee," the spearman said. "The brunt of the attack was at the front of the caravan, which is the only reason we are alive now. The situation is untenable at best; certain death not far removed. We must flee while we can."
Scanning the ground briefly he rescued his coat, which he donned over the now ripped singlet he wore. The thick, fitted jacket fell to his knees, partially covering the bloodstained braies of white linen that shrouded his legs, tucked into knee high boots of scuffed leather. The high collar brushed his jaw line, and a row of tarnished silver studs served as clasps up and down the front. The yellowish color was an odd contrast to his black skin. It was one of his most prized possessions, and served well as mobile protection against edged weapons or other sharp implements, provided he managed to put it on in time.
"We must flee," Hazade reiterated, a desperate look surfacing on his face. "We are outnumbered four-to-one at least! There is no hope here."
Hazade's entreaty was too late, Pollux realized. Eight more of the cats had spotted them, and were sprinting towards them hissing and screeching, weapons raised. The spearman cursed.
"Too late!" Hazade shouted, mirroring Pollux's thoughts. He set himself, ready to spring forward to meet the charge and take at least one or two out with him. Pollux followed suit, relegating the pain in his abdomen to a small corner of his mind. A whizzing sound in the air just above them made them both duck instinctively, and another crossbow bolt slammed into the lead cat, knocking it back into one of its kin. Both fell to the ground, one dead and the other trapped, however briefly. The other six fanned out, but continued their charge. Pollux grimaced.
A great yell of fury split the air, drowning out even the other sounds of battle. Like some vengeful djinn out of a child's tale, Wajid burst through the smoldering wreckage of the wagon, clothes singed and skin blackened with soot. Crying his pain and rage to the sky he bowled into the charging cats and scattered them like marbles. Yowls of pain and shrieks of dismay accompanied his attack, and he lay about him with his spherical mace, smiting the enemy. Pollux and Hazade didn't hesitate in rushing forward as well, taking advantage of the confusion caused by the massive fighter. With grim determination they slew the creatures.
"What hell is this, blackface?" Wajid snarled as the last cat fell, shaking with rage. "My pujil is gone, my skin boils, and cats the size of men leap from the sand!" His chest heaved as he drew breath.
"Now is not the time for questions, Wajid," Hazade said urgently. "We must flee."
"On foot?" Pollux asked rhetorically. He looked at the wagon remnants. Where before the camel team had stood only scattered entrails remained, along with severed limbs protruding upward as if the beasts of burden had been sucked down into the sand. His veins ran cold with ice, and he hurried after Hazade, who was swiftly retreating.
Wajid barked angrily, but logic quickly won out over the fever of battle.
And so over bloodstained sand they fled.