The Trinity Sitch - Book 3: Blade of the Fury
The Witch and the Widow
Some time after the third day, Neil lost track of how far he had traveled. His boots, if the thin leather footwear could even be called that, were almost worn through. The army was making a forced march from the plains around the city of Cyn to the north, hoping to intercept the invading army from the northern continent. At least that is what filtered down to the conscripts at the vanguard of the force. He had been given a shabby over-tunic, a helmet that was little more than a bowl of pounded bronze and a long spear with a diamond shaped head. Other conscripts, hundreds of them, at least that he had seen, marched along with him. Soldiers wearing what could only be called armor if they were going up against an enemy as poorly armed as Neil bossed, shouted and cursed them into loose ranks to begin the march.
Somehow a week and a day passed simply putting one foot in front of the other. The spring rains had come and the road was nothing more than a sloppy muddy gap in the heavily forested landscape. They would stop only long enough for hard tack and water to be passed around, then they would take up their spears once more, slogging their way toward some unknown destination.
Okay, I left the farm where there was a hot woman who made it abundantly clear that she wanted to jump my bones why? Neil would ask himself from time to time. Was it only because I had some vague notion I belong to someone else, someone who, despite trying and trying I can't remember? What was I thinking?
His arrival at the walls of the ancient city of Cyn marked the beginnings of the downward spiral of his fortunes. While old, with crumbling, disused walls, the city was a thriving center for trade. In a month of travels he was beginning to like this new home of his. People had been kind, offering him food and shelter when he needed it. In turn, he offered his services when asked. There was always something that a strong young man could do and his help was always appreciated. He had a small sum of money in his pouch, a simple but serviceable sword strapped to his back and his knowledge of the language was growing by leaps and bounds.
Neil's problem, though, was that he was immediately marked as an outlander. First of all, he was tall. As he reckoned it, he was exactly six feet tall. They called it something else here, but in the end, he stood a full head taller than the average man. That helped him in the bustling crowds of the city but it had a distinct disadvantage of drawing added attention to him.
Then there was the matter of his accent.
It wasn't too bad. People had absolutely no problem understanding him but try as he might to disguise it, it was still there. As nice as the people in the surrounding countryside had been, the city dwellers seemed to regard him with vague suspicion. There was something about foreigners they seemed to distinctly dislike.
He also found he drew the attention of criminals.
Neil felt the 'cutpurse' literally cut the strings of his pouch and start to run away. He was a split second too slow and the thief took the opportunity to try and disappear into the crowd. The pickpocket ducked into a narrow alley and poured the few copper coins into his hand, throwing the leather pouch onto the ground. He didn't see the fist coming straight for his nose. After that, he wouldn't see anything at all for a little while. He was scooping up his coins and trying to re-tie his pouch when the soldiers arrived. Somehow they got the wrong impression of the scene, or, at least that's what he thought at first. He was summarily arrested and hauled away. They paid no mind to the petty criminal. Later he learned the pickpocket had been fully up to date on his protection money. Oh, how nice, the local police force in the business of extorting money from the thieves instead of protecting the citizenry from them.
His experiences before arriving at the city had left him rather naïve. Neil found himself clapped in irons for trying to recover what was rightfully his. Suddenly the though of putting up with Yavvi's advances, whether he actually had a wife, lover or girlfriend elsewhere didn't seem so bad.
He was dragged before a magistrate who, with casual disinterest looked him up and down while reading the charge of assault and theft upon a citizen. Without so much as asking for his side he ordered him thrown into a cell and chained. The cell was large and he was surprisingly by himself.
That only lasted for a day.
Right away he noticed something strange about the prisoners put in with him. Every single one of them could be described as 'able bodied.' A vague notion of what might actually be going on started to form in his head. His memory from before the farm house might have been lost to him, but he was by no means stupid. His suspicions were confirmed when a Captain of the army of Dagan arrived, making demands that he see the prisoners at once. They were roughly pushed out of the cell and lined up for the man to examine. He walked up and down the line, muttering about culling the dregs, scraping the bottom and such. Finally, he pulled a heavy pouch from his belt and brazenly counted out a number of silver coins to the magistrate, not the least bit concerned that one of the prisoners might report this bit of petty corruption. What came next, Neil could almost hear the words in his head before the man said them. The offer was simple: Clemency in return for service in Lord Tanith Moondagan's army in a campaign against a band of northern invaders. Refuse and they would carry out the rest of their sentences. Neil raised an eyebrow to that, since he hadn't been told exactly what his sentence was. The rest of the prisoners were jumping at the chance. Apparently they already knew that service in a coming battle was more desirable than remaining here. To a man they agreed. Visions of glorious battle filled their heads, even Neil's. He had the image of knights cresting a hill on horseback, resplendent in their armor, of charges down that hill into a mass of vile enemies. Battle and glory!
The crushing reality was something far different. There were no swords, only the inordinately long spear he judged was only fit to meet a cavalry charge with. There was no armor save the poor excuse for a helmet, itself probably scavenged from a battlefield if the poorly mended crease across the brow were any indication.
He was part of a sacrificial first wave.
Escape did not seem an answer. The 'sergeants' made it abundantly clear what would happen to deserters. They would become marked men, hunted down by every soldier in Moondagan's army. He knew that wouldn't be the case, as every man would be needed in the coming battle. He had no idea where he might flee to anyway. That meant, once the battle was joined, it was his job to stay alive no matter what the cost. He still had his wits and, if the Effurien were willing, he might just have what it takes to prevail.
The Effurien? Why did it seem so strange to believe in what these people did by faith? Why was there a touch of warning in his mind?
They had been roused from a fitful slumber just after dawn to form ranks once more. Only this time they did not set out to march. He found himself on the front line, his spear resting by its butt on the ground, the point held aloft with the shaft cradled on his left arm as the other conscripts around him did. He looked to his right and left. The line stretched as far as he could see in each direction.
A few hundred yards away another army was arrayed against them. The front line looked like a forest of black spears, only these were somewhat shorter and lighter, a type more easily thrown. The soldiers were just close enough to make out specific details, things like swords, maces, axes, flails and other weapons he could not readily identify were held at the ready. The spearmen almost all had shields, another major difference than his side. The force was perhaps half the size of the Daganite army but he judged them to be a superior fighting force.
The vanguard of conscripts was there merely to soften them up. Moondagan would try to tire the mainlanders before committing his own regular troops. Here on the front lines the regional lord's mistake was evident. He expected to face a mounted force. That was the one and only value of the long spears. They were made to plant in the ground, braced for a cavalry charge. Here they would only be good for one thrust and they would be effectively disarmed. Once a battle was joined, only a shorter weapon would be truly effective.
A man on a large horse, followed by two more bearing standards trotted out into the field. They waited that way for what must have been ten minutes before the captain who had claimed the conscripts at the jail made his way out to them on foot. It quickly occurred to Neil that this might indeed be intended as a sort of insult. That thought was borne out when the men on horseback shouted something angrily at the captain, turned in a rage and galloped back behind their lines. Moments later a great shout went up in their ranks.
Slowly the army advanced on them. Some sort of horn was blown and his line moved forward, though without any great cheer or battle cry. In moments he was running, the pike held high. The two armies crashed into each other and the battle was joined. As his spear found its first mark, Neil discovered something incredible.
He knew how to fight!
The useless spear was wrenched out of his hands as the head jammed into something. No matter, now that the fighting was hand-to-hand is was more in the way than anything else. What he lacked in weaponry, he made up for in ferocity. He was dimly aware that his helm was torn away by a glancing blow. Again it did not matter. His hands closed on the shaft of some kind of weapon and he came up swinging. A spear had broken about two feet from the head and he swung it in a deadly arc, using it partially to batter the enemy, partly as if it were a sword itself.
Battle rage descended on him like a red mist but somehow he managed to remain detached, as if he were simply an observer looking in from the outside. Then even that was lost in the fog of war.
Some how, some way, it was finally over. He stood there on the battlefield, trying to catch his breath. Dimly he was aware of Daganite regulars all around him, running past him as they chased the fleeing northerners. Every so often a uniformed soldier would clap him on the shoulder. Looking down at his blood soaked hands, he discovered he no longer held the broken spear, but a sword in one hand, a short handled axe in the other.
Exhausted, he dropped the weapons and fell to the ground. He was unaware of the strong hands that carried him to the tents of the officers.
He stood alone. A bonfire that had raged like an inferno earlier had burned down to mostly coals, with a small pile of remaining logs burning steadily in its center. He drank in the warmth of the guttering flames, chasing away the chill of the spring night. He heard a sound and discovered that he was not alone after all.
The woman was taller than the others he had seen. He turned to face her and met her eyes. Even in the reddish light of the campfire he could tell they were a luminous brown. Her hair was long, extremely long and pure black. It was gathered in loose ribbons, framing her delicate features perfectly. As she passed between him and the fire he could see the outline of her body through the thin gown she was wearing. She was reed slender, strong looking, yet soft at the same time. She stopped and smiled at him, her arms opening wide.
Hanging from a gold chain, resting on her bosom was a ring. Where had he seen that ring before?
As if he could not control himself, he stepped toward her, reaching to embrace her without knowing why. Her smile deepened into a grin.
Flames burst from her hands, flames of green fire! She changed! She did not become ugly but instead became fearsome to behold. What had been a gentle smile was now an evil smirk. The green fire coursed up her arms. Her porcelain skin changed from its normal color to light green. Even the raven black hair took on a greenish cast.
She was still reaching for him. The fire touched him and he was enveloped in it. She drew back her head to laugh but no sound came forth.
He woke with a start. It was almost completely dark, though he could see a slightly orange light illuminating the wall of whatever he was in. Slowly he came to realize that he had been dreaming. He rubbed his eyes, then his whole face, wishing for some way to shave off the prickly beard that had filled in over the time he had spent in this land.
Was it a dream? The green witch had seemed so real, so beautiful, even when she embraced him with the verdant fire. It dawned on him that the fire had not burned. He was not consumed as the woman leaned in for a kiss. The moment her black lips touched his he awoke.
He was not cold, but he was still shivering. He was beginning to make out details of his surroundings as the dream faded and his eyes adjusted to the low light. He was in some kind of tent. It wasn't a large one, but it had enough room to stand. Peeking through the flap, he discovered he was in a large grouping of tents, all made of plain canvas. In the center of the encampment raged a large fire. Men were huddled around that fire, sleeping, recovering from the day's battle.
The battle started coming back to him. He looked at his hands, marveling at the horror he had wrought with them. They were now clean, the blood washed away. Somebody had put a simple cotton tunic on him and put him to bed in the tent.
What was happening?
In the flickering light of the fire he found a small table in the tent. There was an oil lamp and some other items there. Using the flint, he lit the tiny flame, illuminating the inside with a pale yellow light. He pulled the tunic over his head and checked his body, looking for the wounds he knew would be there. He had come out of the battle alive, but the enemy's blades had found there mark from time to time.
"You are unscathed." A gentle voice said from the door flap.
He looked up. His mouth hung open a moment as a name found its way to his lips. "Yavvi?"
"Shhhhh." She said, taking his arm. "You must now rest, Arcus Neil. Lord Moondagan has ordered you be given a tent and a bed to rest upon until the battle is rejoined on the morrow."
"What? Have you been following me?"
"No." she hung her head, stifling a sniff. "Some of the northern soldiers came to the farm. They burned Torvik's home to the ground after slaughtering him. It was only my fortune that I was returning from the village when they attacked. After that I journeyed to Cyn, hoping to rejoin my family. Instead I was made to be a servant of the officers in this army. When you were carried from the battlefield I told the captains your name. Word was sent to Lord Moondagan and I was told to tend to your wounds and to clean you up."
He sat down on the fur blankets that made his bed. "How can I be unwounded? That doesn't make sense. I remember being stabbed and struck and slashed."
"That is not possible. There is no mark upon you. Word has traveled through the ranks, how you killed over a hundred of the enemy with your bare hands. It was because of you the main force was able to push through and send the mainlanders into retreat." She said, beaming with pride.
He looked at his hands again, the full horror of what he had done hitting him.
I only wanted to live, to survive! Not to slaughter!
"What have I done?"
"You are the hero. This is what I saw in you when I found you. There is something special about you, Arcus Neil. I know it in my heart." She took his hand and placed it over her chest. He became intensely aware of how warm and soft she was. How she smelled of country flowers. How the lamp light shone off the honey colored ringlets of her hair.
"You are mine, Arcus Neil." She whispered as she pushed him down on the bed, her lips brushing his ever so lightly. His arms wrapped around her waist, which seemed so tiny for such a voluptuous woman. His will, his resistance faded away, the image of the green woman chased away in her fiery embrace.
Later, as dawn's light crested the surrounding hills, she pulled the covers tighter around them and snuggled to his chest.
It is done! She thought.