Azure
Disclaimer: I do not own the Soul game series, they are the property of Namco
Now things get interesting. Siegfried's late teen years, and the first canon event in his life. Thanks to Shadow Ronin and my new reviewer, Mark Ol' Henry. Stand up, take a bow!
Otherwise, herebe chapter three!
Part One: Youth
III: Black Wind
The ground trembled from pounding feet and thrashing hooves.
"On your right, Agar! Look out!"
Blood spilt left and right, the cries of wounded and dying.
"Go to hell, you little bastard!"
Another group of bandits slain, more blood to feed the dying grass.
"Now run! Run from death! Run from the wind, for it will find you!"
The Black Wind scores another victory.
In the two years since the men of Halden had left for war, the village youth had quickly had quickly turned from loving, mischievous children to hardened murderers. Without the guidance of their fathers, the boys of the village had become too rowdy and discontented for the old men and powerless mothers to control. They felt lost, abandoned and afraid, and turned to one another for comfort.
Siegfried had been no exception.
Of all the youth gangs that had sprouted in the wake of the war, his had been the strongest, the most ruthless, the most terrifying, and the most grudgingly useful for the village. The members called themselves the Black Wind, an obscure homage to the Black Plague that had purged the European continent some three hundred years before.
At sixteen, Siegfried was little changed from when his father left home. His long blonde hair was tied in a pony tail, his village clothes swapped for a heavy suit of plate mail which covered him from chest to foot. He wore no helmet, preferring sight over protection. His blue eyes gleamed with the sight of a hundred deaths, caused by his own hand. His journey from childhood to warrior had been swift, brutal and unmerciful, and it showed in his personality and voice. He laughed as easily as ever, but it was often cold and mirthless, rather than warm and naive.
But always, no matter the circumstance, he was seen with his zwiehander, Faust, the last gift from his father. Frederick had used the sword when he was young, and gave it to Siegfried minutes before he left for war.
It was an elegant blade, in appearance. Possessing an edged blade and ornate gilded hilt, it nearly as long as Siegfried was tall, about 5 feet from hilt to tip. It's balance was superior and its blade surprisingly sharp for a European sword of the time. Its combination of cutting power and sheer weight made it an extremely formidable weapon, and it was a combination of that and his own skill that allowed Siegfried to crush the other gangs and bring them all into the fold of the Black Wind.
It was now the end of fall, the air was cold and the grass brown and dry. The barn the young men had discovered whilst young was now a fortress, with crude stone walls and a wooden lookout post nearby. Other forts like it lay scattered about the village, burned and desecrated after being attacked by bandits and rival gangs. In this time of civil unrest, roving vagabonds scoured the countryside, searching for sleepy villages to plunder. It was for this reason the people of Halden made nearly no effort to stop the Black Wind; without these young and strong, albeit cruel young men, the village stood no chance against the murderers and thieves that populated the hills and forests of inner Germany.
It was just after defeating one such group that the members of the Black Wind marched proudly back to their hole.
"Did you see me, Commander? Surrounded on all sides, four swordsman ready to cut me to pieces, and I just lay 'em out! Two dead before they could even blink! Another missing his head as he moves to strike me down! I was just too quick for 'em, I was! And then..."
"Quiet, you stupid whelp!" A thinner, more muscular Vincent yelled as he cuffed the excited recruit. "Tell your tales of valor to your mates when we're home, but don't waste the Commander's time!"
The young man sniffed irritably, rubbing his stinging head and falling back to the rear, to talk with his friends away from Siegfried's sycophantic tag-along friend.
Siegfried nodded to Vincent, who beamed proudly at a job well done, as far as he was concerned. Vincent then peeled off to the right, there to tell off another group of younger ones discussing their exploits excitedly.
Siegfried sighed and his head drooped a little. Managing his 50+ group of warriors was exhausting, and he often was loathe to even sleep, running battle plans and methods of exploitation through his head all through the night. Today was another day when he and Agar would have to wrangle food and supplies from the grumbling village. He tightened his metal gauntlet into a fist, still slightly exhilarated from the battle. He thought of the men he had killed without remorse, instead wondering if he should have taken their heads or hands as proof of his gang's handiwork. It was with thoughts such as these that he led his group into their fort.
On the inside, it looked little different than two years ago, still strewn with hay and with a large hearth nearby. But now the walls were lined with weapons, and in the loft instead of young men playing cards were several village harlots and some of the men's lovers, who descended to embrace their men or proposition a lay for the night. Three young men, crippled from loss of limb, sat near a large vat, brewing homemade beer constantly so there was always some on hand. As the evening's events began to move into full swing, Siegfried motioned for Agar. It was time to visit the village.
The two old friends moved swiftly down the hill, accompanied by ten other young men selected to provide intimidation and protection. They walked on the old road in silence, watching the sun begin to sink below the mountains, the trees casting their first evening shadows as the wind blew gently from the west.
"Well, Sieg. Another day, another battle, eh?" Agar asked nonchalantly. Besides being taller, the joker looked no different than he did two years ago.
Siegfried did not reply. Agar shrugged and turned his head away. Siegfried was in another of his silent moods, like he always was before bullying more supplies from their village.
The twelve entered the village, the second day of the month, as always. The village elders stood at the gates, the women, children, and older men behind them. They looked at the younger men with terror and contempt; more than once the Black Wind had made "examples" of those who struck at them. But their hatred was fueled more from need than the loss of loved ones; the gang took much of the food the villagers produced, leaving them all hungry and discontented. As they neared winter, the villagers grew more and more reluctant to part with their hard-earned crops, the last of the season. Today, the second day of November, represented the beginning of another hard, hungry winter.
Siegfried stepped toward the old men, his armor clanking with each step.
"We have come for our payment," he said. "Just today, another band of thieves had come to plunder the village. We beat them off, and expect our supplies to be delivered within the week."
The eldest of the old ones also stepped forward, his eyes narrowed with hatred.
"O loathsome devils, why must you yet again plunder our stores and take our food? We gave you almost all we had last month; surely you can't have need for more already?"
Siegfried stared evenly at the old man.
"We have broken our backs for you ungrateful ingrates, have raised you from birth, and for what? Security? Pah!" The old man spat upon Siegfried's iron-plated boots. "You take more from us than any roving band ever would!"
Siegfried looked down at his filthied boot, then struck the old man with a vicious back-hand. The old man let out a pained cry and fell down at Siegfried's feet, looking up in terror of the young man.
Smirking, Siegfried kicked the old man, causing him to groan in pain. "Stupid old man," he said venomously. "I'd make you lick your spit from my boot, but I wouldn't want your disgusting tongue on my armor. I'm annoyed enough with your blood on it." He kicked the old man again, hearing a sharp crack as the man's ribs broke. Siegfried left him to lie, looking at the terrified villagers murderously.
"You have one week! We've worked hard for you, and deserve compensation." He bent down to look the old man in the eye, who was barely conscious for pain and lack of air.
"Take good care of your health," Siegfried whispered, and delivered one last kick before turning his back on the village.
"Curse you!" One of the older men shouted behind him. "You'll get what's coming for you soon, mark me! The furher's men are retreating to the northern front, and when they pass through they'll crush you bastards! Just watch; your hour will come!"
One of Siegfried's men moved to punish the man, but the Commander held him back.
"Feh. If they're retreating, then they're cowards. Cowards who don't deserve to fight in Germany's name. We'll cut them down; maybe you'll finally learn to shut up and serve us, then."
Without another word, he continued back to the fort, the sun halfway through the trees as the shadows lengthened.
"Jesus Christ, Commander! Did you really have to kick him again?" One of Siegfried's men asked drunkenly. "I mean, he was, like, old! really old! Really, really, I mean that. Old, good God he's old. Old, old, old..." the young man rambled on, his head slowly falling to the table before collapsing in an old puddle of beer. Siegfried snorted in disgust as the man snored, deciding now would be the best time to tell his men of the news, before they all passed out. He moved in front of the hearth, letting out an ear-piercing whistle to get everyone's attention.
"My fellow warriors! Today, you have all fought exceedingly well! We've suffered not a single death in four skirmishes thus far, and minor injuries are all we suffer. I'm very proud."
The young men whooped and cheered for themselves and for their Commander, slapping each other on the back and giving congratulatory toasts to one another.
"However," Siegfried yelled over the resulting din. The teens quieted down somewhat.
"However," Siegfried continued, "There are more pressing matters at hand. The villagers report that a group of the Furher's men are moving north, retreating from the southern skirmishes to sortie north and reinforce the main lines. While we support our mother land, these cowards are deserting the people to the south, and they may assist the villagers here and try to drive us away from our home. We cannot allow that to happen! Death to the traitors who try to kick us out of our home!"
"DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!" the men roared back, toasting their leader and country. Someone started to sing an old war song, which was quickly joined with other happy, drunken voices.
Siegfried was satisfied for the moment, but knew he would have to tell them all again in the morning. He accepted a pint from one of the men, and excused himself out back to remove his armor. One of the resident whores offered him a good deal for the night, and Siegfried also accepted. There was no better aid to sleep than a quick lay, after all.
During the next week, Siegfried's men trained diligently, beating off the occasional group of marauders and receiving the village's exploited supplies. It was late into Sunday evening when the watchman called out.
"To Arms! An armed band comes from the southern road! To Arms!"
With trained haste the young men abandoned their ladies and drinks and equipped themselves for battle. Siegfried and Agar rushed up the watchtower, while Vincent hurried on the stragglers to ranks.
"Where are they? How close? How many?" Siegfried demanded of the young watchman, a youth barely twelve years old.
"About a mile off, Commander! I think they're the retreating men you told us about the other day."
Agar squinted into the failing light, for his eyes were the keenest of all the men. "I think he's right, Sieg, "he said. "About ninety or so, in full armor. They have a commander, of fairly low rank by the look of his armor, and two flag-bearers. It's the Furher's seal!" Agar turned to look at his old friend. "They'll be here soon, but not before dark comes. We can wait until they're below the hill, then use the night for an ambush."
Siegfried nodded, then motioned Vincent to come up the tower.
"Extinguish the lights in the fort, then move half the men with Agar to the woods opposite the hill. I'll command the men on the hill. When you hear an owl call three times, attack the enemy flank. We'll catch them in a pincer, then push them back the way they came." With his orders given out, Siegfried hurried down the tower, preparing to repeat his orders to his squad of men.
As dusk fell, Siegfried and his men crouched along the top of the hill, their blades hidden to avoid catching the faintest light. The moon was obscured by dark clouds, the perfect night for an ambush. They could barely make out the line of men as they began to move around the hill, but the other half of Siegfried's men were completely obscured by the trees of the dark forest.
The soldiers moved closer. Siegfried nudged one of the younger men, who gave the first cry.
The soldiers were almost to the base of the hill. The young man hooted again.
And as the soldiers began to pass the hill, the owl cry hooted once more.
With a sudden crack of branches, the first wave of Siegfried's men hit the soldier's right flank, the terrified cries of the surprised soldiers almost drowned out by the frenzied battle shouts of the young men.
"Now!" Siegfried roared, and his men charged down the hill, crashing into the back of the soldiers. The Furher's men were completely confused, attacked on both sides by warriors in a supposedly safe area. They lashed out blindly in the night, the commander unable to take control of his terrified men.
Siegfried rushed into the melee, drawing Faust from its sheath and cutting down two men with a single stroke. He swung and stabbed fiercely, shouting insults and curses as he killed man after man. As he fought blurred images sat on his peripheral vision; one of his young warriors gutted by an enemy soldier, Vincent roaring like a berserker with his ax, Agar silently slitting a flagbearer's throat before tossing a knife in the back of a soldier about to fire an arrow into the battle.
Before long the soldiers were clearly losing, fighting desperately as the flank cut off their escape. After Siegfried had slain his fifth soldier, he suddenly caught the motion of a sword coming down on his shoulder. Siegfried parried quickly, knocking the blade to the side and noting with interest that the weapon was also a zwiehander, this one of military build. Siegfried settled into his stance as he faced the enemy commander, ready to slay this skilled warrior.
With a loud battle cry Siegfried launched his attack, bringing his blade down on his enemy's head. But the soldier was ready for such an attack, and neatly sidestepped the attack while simultaneously striking at Siegfried's torso. Barely bringing his weapon around to block in time, Siegfried quickly feinted right and kicked his opponent in the gut, his foot ringing against the iron breastplate. But it was enough to shock his opponent, and Siegfried took the offensive again, striking low then high with two large, sweeping strikes. The first attack was quickly jumped over, but to Siegfried's surprise the enemy rolled under the high strike, landing at Siegfried's side and bringing the blade up to Siegfried's face. Siegfried attempted to dodge out of the weapon's range, but stumbled and fell, feeling the blade slice up his right cheek and past his eyebrow, nearly blinding him.
As blood dripped from his face Siegfried roared with rage and struck at his foe's legs again, this time tripping his opponent. Quickly rolling to his feet, Siegfried pinned the man beneath his foot, his boot pressing heavily on the man's chest.
"Go to hell, filthy traitor," Siegfried yelled, hefting his blade up and bringing it down on his foe's neck, decapitating him. The head rolled a few feet away, blood gushing from the severed neck as the man's heart continued to beat despite the lack of a brain to feed. Not wasting time, Siegfried stomped over to the head and grabbed it by the hair, lifting it up into the air.
"I've killed the commander!" he cried. "Victory is-"
The light of the moon peeked through the clouds, illuminating the head Siegfried held.
The head of the commander.
The head of a warrior he had known all his life.
The head of the man who had taught him everything he had known.
The head of his father dripped blood from its neck.
"AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHHHHH!" Siegfried screamed, his eyes bulging in horror at the sin he had committed. He had slain his own father, Frederick Schtauffen, brutally decapitating the man who had raised him from birth. He dropped the head, still screaming as he stared at the lifeless eyes of his father, wide with surprise and terror.
"COMMANDER! What has happened? Commander!" Vincent cried, but Siegfried barely heard him. His head was swimming, his sight blurry save for his father's head, which seemed to burn like it was consumed with fire. With another blood-curdling scream Siegfried ran from the battle, ran away into the dark woods, ran away from the clash of arms and the calls of his name. He ran into the night, the image of his father's head still before his eyes.
It was almost twenty minutes before Siegfried stopped running, when the sounds of the battle were so far away he could no longer hear them. Siegfried collapsed to the cold ground, panting heavily, tears pouring from his eyes. He looked at his right hand, which still held Faust. In disgust Siegfried threw it with all his might, where it embedded itself in a tree nearby. Siegfried crouched under a tree and clutched his knees to his chest, rocking slowly back and forth as he sobbed.
'Father...no. Not you. I never meant to kill you, father. Why? Why did you have to be with them? Why couldn't you stay with me?' "WHY?" Siegfried shouted into the darkness, striking the ground with his fists. "Why did you die, father? Why didn't you stop me, tell me who you were? WHY ARE YOU DEAD, FATHER?"
He sobbed again, memories of his father rushing through his mind. His first training session, getting fish in the market, falling gently to sleep as his father told him tales of ancient warriors...
His head still sat in his vision, pleading softly to Siegfried.
Suddenly, the grief became too much for Siegfried. He seized up, suddenly feeling tremendous pain in his head, then fell to his side, unconscious.
He awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed and dazed. He tried to figure out where he was, what he was doing in this grove of trees. He sneezed; the air was cold. He looked around and saw his sword, still stained with blood.
Then he remembered.
'My father...he was killed last night. He was beheaded...and I found his head. Some monster killed my father!' he though savagely, grasping his sword and pulling it from the trunk of the tree.
"I swear to find my father's killer...and make him pay! Pay for his crimes, and for leaving my mother alone. He will pay!" Siegfried roared, slashing at the tree and cutting a deep mark into it. In his madness, Siegfried thought back to his father's tales. The story of a sword, a Sword of Heroes, that granted god-like power to whomever possessed it. That legendary weapon, that could grant any wish. That was the path he would take; that was his answer to vengeance.
"I will find the blade! I will take the Sword of Heroes, and use it to utterly destroy my father's slayer and everyone he knows!"
'And then...with that blessed blade...perhaps I can even return him from the dead!' he added silently to himself.
Possessed by madness, blinded by rage, Siegfried hefted Faust on his shoulder and walked deeper into the woods. His quest, to find the Sword of Heroes, had begun.
Part One End.
Well, that was quite long. Should give you plenty to chew on while I cook up the next chapter. But whilst you have read this story, I have read nothing. Give a starving writer something to read; send a review. It makes all the difference, and makes me kill one less kitten!...kidding.