פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Ten: Respite
Sergeant Stef Reimos forded through the chest-deep waters, his wet cloak dragging behind. When the fleeing Band remnant had come upon this fast flowing river, Stef had been stunned to see this clear, flowing tributary in the heart of the Blasted Lands. But, the Red Hands quickly accepted this at face value, as a barrier to hold off any pursuit. Whoever the hell was in charge had decided they should cross, but personally, Stef didn't believe a couple spans of water would slow down the Horde they were fleeing. And speaking of which…
"Who in the bloody ashes is in charge, Tayren?" Stef asked. "This must be what a headless chicken feels like."
"How should I know? It's either Vader or Arcanum. Maybe one of the Luty Generals will try to take over. And they're welcome to it." Tayren grunted.
Stef glanced down at the fast-flowing water churning around his torso. It looked cool and clear, an anomaly in the core of the Black Lands. His throat was parched from the long march, and he was tired of the flat water they've been receiving as ration, which was not a lot. He cupped some water in his hands and raised them towards his face. But he immediately halted as the once clear water in his hands turned completely black. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and shook his hands free of the inky fluid.
"It's a bloody illusion." Stef grimaced. He felt more comforted as he finally stumbled onto dry land, out of the water-that-was-not-water. Stef tugged his cloak off, and twisted the soaked cloak free of the water. The falling water droplets turned black in mid-air, oozing down into the soil.
He draped his cloak over one shoulder, and glanced to find the rather soggy Zephyr Hawk Banner of his legion hanging limply upon its pole. He motioned his squad after him, and set off towards a viable camp spot. Satisfied at a dry sandy area, he grunted a command, and stripped himself of his wet clothes, unable to abide having the foul water tainting his skin.
He removed all his clothes except his trousers and laid them on the ground to dry. At least he hoped they would dry. He looked around to see most of the soldiers doing the same, with most of the veterans lying down to catch some sleep. He saw that young Cordin was carefully cleaning his sword with a handful of sand, and walked over to the tyro.
"Lo, soldier."
"Sergeant." Cordin carefully laid his sword down, and stood up to attention. He looked like a child. But, he must at least be twelve, the minimum age for enlisting.
"You did well back there, as well as a raw could. How much swordship training did you get when you started?"
"Just the basics, sir!"
"Don't call me sir. Well, I have some time on my hand. Hell, the generals still haven't even made up their mind on who's in charge. Let me see what you can do." Stef wielded his sword in a loose grip in his left hand. "I'm a southie, but don't hold that against me."
Cordin licked his lips and grabbed his blade as well. Stef gave a couple of casual thrusts, which the tyro blocked to a sufficient extent.
"Now, soldier, not bad. But you're fighting a man, and a man is a world's difference from a spawn. I'm sure you've had experience with that already." Stef snapped his sword forth, which was barely parried.
"Trollocs, as you've seen, are rather large, moody creatures. They're unnaturally strong, and can smash your skull open with a bare fist. They can outrun a horse, and have hides that can deflect steel. If you want to live, you stay fast and stay agile, stay on your toes. Unless you want to be hacking away all day, target three areas. The throat's unprotected and a quick kill but the hardest to hit because of the height. The second is through the armpits. The third is their legs.
"You can attack their chest or belly if you wish, but make sure your blade is angled between the ribs and to one side. But, that tends to be the most well protected." Reimos begins to rotate his sword casually.
"Watch out for their bloody strength. You try blocking their blows the way you're doing to me? Well, comparing the muscles in your wrist to, say, the shoulders of a Trolloc. Like blocking a blacksmith hammer with a hard-boiled egg." With all his strength, Stef spun, and slammed his sword down on Cordin's. The tyro's blade bounced off the ground and skipped through the air, digging a trench into the sand where it landed. Cordin flinched, rubbing at his wrist.
"Angle your sword enough so their blows are deflected away from you. Use their brute strength against them. Like that Order of Black Moon; those crazy empty-hand warriors in Aegar. Though, give me a sword any day." Stef kicked up Cordin's sword and tossed it back to him, "But dodge whenever possible. Avoid it. Even a glancing blow can snap your arm."
Stef slammed his sword down again, but Cordin parried it aside correctly. The kid seemed to have gotten over-enthusiastic, thinking he could give his tutor a move of his own, snapping forward with Reimos still overextended. Stef twisted his body, bringing his hilt around to send Cordin's sword flying again.
"Cute…" Stef grinned, "And remember to keep a better grip on your weapon. Well, I'm going to get some shut-eye. You're showing improvement."
"Thank you, sir." Cordin retrieved his sword and started to wipe the blade with his red cloak.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stef exploded.
"Sir?" The young man seemed confused.
"Never use your cloak to wipe your sword. Hell, tear it up to bandage someone's wounds, to save a life. But that cloak is the symbol of what you are here for. You get one bloody cloak, and you better treat it with bloody respect. Being a soldier is two equal parts, the Way and the Means. Your hands are the Means and your cloak is your Way. Without your Way, you become nothing but a brute with a sword." Stef slowed to catch his breath, and then spoke softly, "You want to keep your sanity, son. That's Manetheren you're carrying on your shoulder and back. That's bloody Manetheren. Your Way."
Stef turned and left without another word, his sword trailing in one hand.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ