A Light in the Dark story
By Ulff Lehmann
“Kid, don’t do it,” Kerral said again. “They want to screw you over. And will you stop with the drink already? We both know your mood when you’re drunk.”
Kerral was older than him. He’d seen the hazing that came with being the newest fighter in the warband, had even tried to shield him from the worst. Something Drangar would always be grateful for, but this he had to do. He had to prove to those who tormented him that he was like them—a mercenary.
He took in the older man over the rim of his mug, and tilted the container higher, blocking him out. Instead, mead flooded his mouth, spilling, dripping down his chin onto table and tunic. “You ain’t my father,” he finally said, burping.
In fact, the young warrior had no father. None he ever knew of, anyway. “I’m of age, I can handle a sword, and we’re bloody mercenaries.” He arched his eyebrows. “Tuaghal, Una and the others are my friends.” He burped again.
“Besides,” said Tadc, from beside Kerral. “It’s easy money.”
It was the end of another long day for Mireynh’s Marauders. With a sigh, Kerral stood. “Have it your way. Mireynh’s taking the company to the winter garrison. You know where.”
“Mead!” Drangar yelled, raising his tankard, willfully ignoring the warleader. He was sixteen, an adult for two years—he knew what he was doing.
A heavy hand pushed down his raised arm. “We’re leaving, you coming, runt?” Tadc said.
Like everyone in Tuaghal’s band of mercenaries, Tadc was a veteran of many battles. He was hardened—like the jagged scars that accentuated his face and form. He was ruthless and bloody well looked the part.
To be in the company of these stalwart warriors was an honor. The fact that they asked him to accompany them on their little expedition to protect a village was a sign that he was finally accepted as a true mercenary. At least, he hoped it was.
For Drangar, this had been a long, slow year of suffering, humiliation, and degradation. Such was the hazing that came with becoming a rookie member in this elite band of warriors. Mireynh’s Marauders was one of the most famous mercenary armies in the world, and Drangar had paid his dues. He finally felt like he belonged.
So what if Tadc called him a ‘runt’. He didn’t mind it. The old warrior was almost two feet taller than him. Truth was, standing next to the man, he felt like a runt indeed.
They set off from Bruidh M’dhain, heading east. At first, the pace was decent, though Drangar could feel his mount trembling with exhaustion long before they reached the inn that first evening.
“What’s that say?” Tuaghal demanded. He pointed at the writing underneath the sign of a wolf holding a goat’s head in its maws.
“Ask the runt,” Lugaid said. “He can read.”
Drangar sighed. He should have never proclaimed he knew his letters. Once again the fact that he had been raised in the Eye of Traksor kicked him in the balls.
“Well, Librarian,” Tuaghal said, waving him over, “What’s that say?”
“It’s a piece of wood,” Drangar replied. “It doesn’t say anything.”
Why had he used those words? Had he hoped his comrades would laugh? Now that he was accepted among the brethren of warriors, things were different—or so he hoped—so why weren’t they laughing?
Only Finnen, who was right beside him, exhaled her amusement, but one look from Tuaghal and she fell silent. The warleader lashed out, slapping Drangar with such surprise force, he damn near knocked out a tooth.
“You little shit, don’t you dare get cocky. Understood?”
Biting back tears that were in equal parts shame and anger, Drangar only managed a nod. It was confirmation that he was still just the runt.
“I didn’t hear you, Librarian!”
“I’m not a Librarian,” Drangar pushed back at the man through clenched teeth. His mind raged at the hypocrisy and double standards. He was their equal, now, dammit! A part of the company, a mercenary!
“You’re in my company,” Tughal seethed—and when he seethed, spittle drooled down from the left corner of his mouth, like a ravenous dog. “I lead. What I say is law, and when I call you Librarian, you will answer to it and you will like it, understood?”
Drangar’s eyes were level with Tughal. “Aye,” he mumbled.
“I did not hear you, runt.” His cold stare bore into his newest mercenary.
“Tuaghal,” Finnen said. “Give’im a break, already. He’s trying to fit in.”
If Drangar were to guess, she was in her twenties, closer to his age than theirs. Maybe that’s why she spoke on his behalf. Maybe it was because he had taken her place as the runt of this mangy litter.
“He can read, girl, that’s why we took him with us in the first place,” Sitric scoffed from behind. “Read the bloody sign, boy.”
Sitric, like his brethren, was a seasoned fighter. He’d seen his shares of blood and death—women and ale—and had an eye for strategy in warfare. Most of all, Drangar knew that Sitric could always be counted upon to tell it like it was. And so he did…
So that was it? They’d only taken him along because of his letters? Compared to them, he was a Librarian, true, but he was no priest of Traghnalach. No, Lesganagh, the god of Sun and War, was his patron. Drangar gritted his teeth.
“Do what he wants,” Finnen whispered, leaning into him.
He turned his head to her and blinked away the tempered tears. Her smile was enough to appease the bruising of his heart against its cage.
“No weapons allowed,” he spoke the lettered words to her, but loud enough for them to hear. “Leave them in the stable.—That’s what it says.”
“Anything else?” Tuaghal asked. “I can count, boy.”
Suppressing a sigh, Drangar turned to the despised sign and read the second part. “Any who disobey will deal with the Knights of Kalduuhn.”
The mercenaries turned to each other for discourse.
“What’s a knight of Kalduuhn?” Tadc asked.
“Never heard of them,” Una said. But Drangar had…
“They’re the keepers of the law here,” Drangar said, regretting it immediately. They’re not going to stop calling you ‘Librarian’ if you keep talking like one, he thought.
“Librarian indeed,” Tuaghal said with a grin. “You heard the rules, let’s get the horses stabled and find someone to take care of our weapons.”
This someone was, of course, Drangar. He had barely brushed down his aging gelding when Tuaghal dragged him to the front of the stables. “You’ll watch the gear until the local idiot locks them away, understood?” An order.—Spoken by a man who was used to giving orders.
“Yes, Sir,” Drangar said, holding out both hands to receive the leader’s sword belt and dagger.
“Good boy,” Tuaghal said, patting his head.
Drangar resisted the temptation to toss the gear into the muck. Instead, he placed it on the table near the stable’s entrance. Some of the others, Sitric first and foremost, did not put their weapons in his hands. They dropped them into the muck at his feet, demanding he bow down to retrieve them.
“Don’t fuck with the help,” Tadc growled, kicking one of the offenders in the ass. Drangar couldn’t suppress the playful smile that curved his lips when the swift kick sent her sprawling. “Here you go, runt,” the tall mercenary said, putting his sword and mace onto the table himself. “Don’t let them treat you like shit.”
Soon he was alone, guarding a table stacked with all kinds of weapons. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He was a mercenary just like them. He’d stood his ground in the shield wall, he’d bled alongside them, he’d received his share just like them. Was it his fault he was better with the blade? Was their animosity towards him born from envy? He did his part, was a comrade like Kerral had taught him to be. In the wall everyone is your sibling, you can’t survive the wall without siblings. Since joining Mireynh’s Marauders he’d done everything that was asked of him. Mucking stables, feeding and brushing horses, polishing armor, sharpening blades—everything—all the tasks freshlings were supposed to do, and he had done all without complaint.
Drangar drew his long knife and squinted along its blade in the flickering torchlight. Next, he fumbled for his whetstone and set about uncovering the knife’s edge again. Up and down the stone went, along the nicked steel. The motion quelled his anger and drove it to the back of his mind.
“Hey.” A voice, Finnen’s voice, disrupted his reverie.
Drangar blinked, looked at the knife and stone in his hands and then at the older woman. She carried a covered plate in one hand and a mug in the other hand. Putting weapon and stone away, he returned the greeting—a word for a word. “Hey.”
He wanted to say more, but the words only reached his throat before he swallowed them back. He’d never understood why he couldn’t just talk to her.
“Brought you this.” She handed him plate and mug, pulling off the cover as he took them from her. “Stew and ale. The bread’s terrible, so I spared you that,” she said. It was her smile that eclipsed his hunger.
“Thanks,” Drangar said, putting the mug on the table and digging in.
“I’m sorry,” Finnen said, sitting down across from him.
“For?” he asked, chewing.
She paused for a moment, and then met his eyes. “They treated me the same way, you know.”
“Oh,” he acknowledged the intent of her words. “Well, them being cunts isn’t your fault, don’t apologize for shit you’re not responsible for.”
“Still,” even if she had no part in it, she was still sorry—for him. “They’re being real shitty assholes, even by their standards,” she said.
“All right?” He took a pull of ale, not knowing what she was still doing there with him.
“I got the proprietor to send one of his staff out as soon as possible.” There it was.
The spoonful of stew in his mouth was forgotten as Drangar pondered the implication. Tuaghal hadn’t kept word. Some leader, he wanted to say. Instead, stew dribbled down his chin.
Finnen snorted.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning like a fool. Then he remembered. “The gelding can’t keep up with the pace. What shall I do?”
“Tell Tadc,” Finnen answered. “He sort of likes you, better he tells Tuaghal than you.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll do that. So, what are they doing up there?”
“What does anyone do when they’re gearing up for battle?” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Drangar shifted his eyes to the corner of room, looked back at her and shrugged.
“They’re eating,” she said, “and drinking and fucking. Bloody Una and Tennal practically put on a show in the tavern hall.”
Drangar looked down at his plate to contemplate her answer. “Seems more apt to prepare yourself, mentally.”
Finnen face fell serious. “This is preparing them mentally.”
His brows pulled together trying to make sense of her words.
She smiled. “Drangar, when have you ever known a warrior to speak of roses and rainbows?” she started. “Our lives are a gamble every time we take the field. It doesn’t matter how prepared we are or how strong or how many. Someone always falls. So, who’s it gonna be this time?
“We, marauders, we harden within months among our bretheren. In years, we’re practically shelled in steel. Can you dent steel with your hands, Drangar?” Her eyes were cold, and yet the warm coal of emotion burned in the depth of her orbs.
Still, she had more to say, “On the eve of battle a thousand careless thoughts flood through a warrior’s mind. And they’re not about armor or swords or their numbers or positions or such… You think Una will be thinking of Tennal when she takes the field a few days from now? No. And do you know how I know? Because I’ve seen the way they look at each other, and there is no love there—not even a little—but there is need. A thousand images and voices from the past take over your mind on the eve of battle and you ask yourself Have I lived? Am I ready to die?
“So, in these coming days, we live—fiercely—it is our way. We eat, we fight, we laugh and we fuck—hard. We live for the day, Drangar, for our last may be near.”
He nodded. He understood. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” he said. “Why the Scales are you down here with me instead of up there—living.”
She shrugged and looked away from him. “I bought you food and ale because you’re one of us—a warrior, a brethren—and while we’ve eaten, I know you hadn’t.”
He had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it; but Drangar caught her arm when she stood up and reached for the plate of food he’d cannibalized.
“Please stay.” He stared up at her. Immediately, her eyes shot to his as he chucked the plate to the floor beside him and gently pulled her closer.
Finnen was right. Drangar was alone in this world, outside of the Marauders. And if he was going to meet his death within days, he didn’t want to spend this time alone and he sure as fuck didn’t want to die a virgin.
It was strange. Never having slept with a woman hadn’t bothered him before. His mind was always pressed with other things and this was something that could wait. Maybe when he fell in love, maybe she’d be his wife.
But one chat with Finnen had brought a new perspective to his dismissive attitude towards this particular aspect of life. What had started with a tender kiss deepened into something more desperate—something that gasped for its next breath—Finnen’s words had made it so.
That’s why she’d said fucking not making love. This was not a slow process of mutual discovery or spiritual enjoyment, they weren’t thinking of pleasuring each other. This was not a gentle act of desire. It was the rough and fierce will to feel alive.
At the same time, Drangar wasn’t about to lie to himself. He did feel something for Finnen. Maybe he wasn’t entirely in love, but given time, thought he could be. The point was… he cared. Which was why this was hard for him. While something buried within him urged Drangar to take her—fuck her—something else held him back. Finnen deserved better treatment. Hers was the kind of beauty that shone from within and draped over from without. Though a warrior, herself, she possessed the rare charm that made men want to write poetry or die protecting it. At least, that’s what Drangar saw when he looked at her. She wore warrior marks, well.
It was all he could do not to come in his pants when she’d shed her clothes. She’d shed them fast, as though they were on fire and reached for his. She was practically begging him to fuck her.
Still, he tried to be gentle, to take things slow, but she had him under her and was clearly calling the shots. Desire raced through him and it set his blood on fire. Drangar felt a need to dent the steel shell, to shatter the bloody thing, to feel alive at his very core.
A strong naked woman sat over him, straddling him. He groaned when he felt himself slide into her. It didn’t take long before he was too far gone, and so was she.
“Pace yourself,” her breaths were labored and driven, “make this last a long while.”
Drangar stared at her with wide eyes, taking in the bounce of her breasts, the curve of her waist. He pulled and kneaded her hips and ass, eliciting deeper moans and wilder thrusts. He was learning the language of the Finnen form.
“More,” she breathed loudly, “and don’t you dare come now.”
It was less a threat and more a desperate plea—to be ravished beyond her ability to reason. She just needed to feel.
Drangar was about to break; he was losing his mind. Either he got her off him or this was about to end, now. His hands were on her hips, holding her in place, willing her to be still.
“Why?” she asked, breathing heavily. “Please,” she said, “I need…”
“I know what you need,” his level words brought her back to his eyes, “and you’ll have it, Finnen.” It was a promise that elicited a wanting gasp from the depth of her core.
Drangar switched their position quite suddenly, pinning her to the ground. “Feel me.”
He turned her over and pulled her up onto her hands and knees in front of him. She arched her back against him, her naked ass rubbing him as he covered her body with his own.
Drangar traced her scars with his eyes but all he saw was her beautiful, strong body, and all he felt was her soft skin against his own. He could smell her heat—it filled his head with madness and wouldn’t let him go.
Grabbing her hips, he pushed her knees apart and she moaned as he slid into her. It was too much. Her groaning, and moaning, her body slamming against his, grinding. He’d wanted—he’d tried to be gentle with her but instinct took over and he lost control. Along with it, he lost any tenderness or gentleness he’d wished to have with her.
Whatever confused feelings he’d had, they were all buried under an avalanche of lust. He gripped her hips and rammed into her hard and fast, she met his motion, pumping her body against his. No! He needed to control this, she had had her way, now he would have his! He held her down and fucked her hard—shoving himself deep into her again and again. Her moans were gaining in time and sound until the lusting cries piqued as he spilled himself into her.
“Scales!” As he continued to gush his seed. They collapsed on top of each other, spent and out of breath.
“Alive?” he asked.
She tried to smile as she stuttered, “Every inch of me is alive.”
Finnen rolled onto her side to face him and they both erupted into laughter. In Drangar’s life, a life that he had always viewed as one moment of misery followed by the next, this evening with Finnen was a drop of nectar.
A young woman entered and regarded them. Their clothes were scuffed and rumpled, and Drangar was sure his tunic was inside out, but he didn’t care. They huddled by the fire and shared stories. To Drangar she said, “Your belt, put it with the others.” She inspected the armory on the table. “Guess some of the bastards don’t like you very much, eh?—I take care of this, get out—the two of you.”
Tuaghal didn’t care about the gelding, and late the next afternoon, the company paid the price for that neglect. A goodly ten miles from the next village—well within Chulaghanish territory—the gelding staggered, stumbled, and Drangar barely managed to jump off the saddle before the poor beast collapsed. One final, shuddering breath, a twitch of the legs, and the horse lay still.
“Fuck,” Drangar swore.
Sitric growled, “Stupid runt,” and rode past him.
“Ah Scales,” said Tadc, halting beside him. “The lass told Tuaghal about it, but our esteemed leader said searching for a horse would slow us down.”
“Shit,” Finnen swore, holding behind them.
“Tuaghal!” Tadc shouted; the leader turned to look.
Eying the gelding, the bastard rode back, glaring. “Waiting for a resurrection, Librarian? Get your shit off the corpse. You can have the ass. Ditch what doesn’t fit.”
Tadc handed over the reins of the donkey, grimacing. The beast didn’t look much better than the gelding. The older mercenary must have seen Drangar’s doubt. “The little critter’s been with us a year now, always looked so mangy.”
Drangar bobbed his head in acknowledgement and began to remove several of the bags lining the ass’s back. No sooner had he started, than he heard the loud critical remonstrance that made the hair on his forearms stand straight.
“Not our provisions, you dumb fuck, your stuff!” Tuaghal yelled, causing Drangar to stand at attention. Some of the others sniggered.
Was Tuaghal serious? Everything Drangar ever owned was stuffed into those few sacks. He had no home; he had no homeland. This was it, right here; this was all he had. Did Tughal really intend for him to throw away his only possessions?
“This is all I own,” he protested. “We can always buy more food.”
Drangar could see the line of spittle starting to drool down the left corner of his mouth. Here it comes. “This is my company, you pisswit!” Tuaghal spat, “my rules.”
Now all but Finnen and Tadc laughed, applauding Tuaghal. Shitty assholes! The lot of them.
“Pisswit, that’s a new one.
Priceless.
One that’ll stay with him forever.
Love it.”
Drangar balled his hands into fists; his nostrils flared; his brow clenched. The deep scowl on his lips were testimony to how well he shared their humor. He wanted to lash out; he wanted to bite Tuaghal’s head off and feed it to the line of mercenaries always ready to lick his asshole.
Instead, tears of rage threatened to flood the rims of his eyes. Drangar could only do what he always did; he swallowed his anger at the unfairness of it all. His body dropped violently to his knees to rifle through his belongings. He would not open himself to more ridicule by swearing or cursing this injustice.
“Runt, put some of the foodstuffs on my horse,” Tadc said.
“The food stays where it is!” Tuaghal snapped.
“Fuck you,” Tadc retorted. “You picked up this job, but you aren’t my master. You’ve been treating the runt like shit for months now. The food was paid for with all our money, so I will take my share and have my horse carry it.”
Tuaghal’s jaw tightened. Drangar eyed a thickening vein in his temple, and for a moment he feared the mercenary would attack Tadc—then him. Steel often repaid humiliation. To his surprise, though, it was Una who reined her horse back to take a pair of sacks off the donkey as well.
Finnen and the others followed, until only one sack was left dangling from the frame straddling the donkey’s back. Reluctance was plain on Tuaghal’s face, reluctance and shame? Still, the older mercenary guided his horse forward. He took the remaining sack, but reined the horse with such aggressive force when he turned about, causing the heavy satchel to slam into Drangar.
“Get your shit packed, pisswit,” he growled.
By the time they reached Little Creek, Drangar felt less the outsider than before. Sure, there were many who still shunned him, but with Tadc, Finnen and Una he had some people to spend time with.
It was noon. The clouds were heavy in the sky, and if he were to guess, winter was closer than he had reckoned. It must have been late Chill, or early Cold—maybe. A few children lined the dirt road into the village, staring at them. Here and there, a woman or man poked their heads out of a window or a door to watch their arrival. It wasn’t every day they saw a sight like Mireynh’s Marauders ride through their streets.
The door to the largest timber frame, wattle and daub building flung wide open and out strode a stout, round-bellied man—a figure far better nourished than the children and people he’d seen. Next to the walking barrel panted a young man. His cheeks flushed red in the chill air. Drangar guessed father and son judging by the similar features. He was slimmer and stronger looking, but younger—much younger. Drangar reckoned he was near his own age.
The donkey looked back at him as if demanding to be free of its load. He obliged, receiving a quick bite on the arm as thanks.
“This is the one I spoke to, father,” the younger man said, pointing at Tuaghal.
“So you’ll help us with the brigands?” the older asked. “Thank the gods.—Forgive me my manners; I’m headman Amdah, reeve of the Lord Gebennach Duann. Welcome to Little Creek.”
“Tuaghal; and we ain’t here to trade pleasantries.—Why did you send for mercenaries? Your son didn’t tell me.”
Headman Amdah’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “Arvel, you didn’t tell them?” he reproached his son.
Arvel could’ve explained. He wanted to. “But father-,” the young man’s reply was cut by a crimson heat burning at the side of his face where his father’s handprint lay pronounced.
“Foolish boy,” the reeve scolded. Addressing Tuaghal, he said, “Apologies for the lack of transparency. Our lord’s forces are occupied. All able bodied men went with him. Which is why we searched for you. Heard only good things about Mireynh’s Marauders, though the name is a bit unsettling.”
Tuaghal looked his son up and down. “Guess Arvel, here, ain’t that able in the body, eh?” he said. Even Drangar had to chuckle when the reeve and son shifted in discomfort. “Brigands, eh? Harvest drawing out the rats, eh?”
“Father, will they be-,” More crimson heat. Again Arvel was slapped into silence.
“When men talk, children listen.”
Arvel gritted his teeth and looked to the ground, chastised. Drangar’s eye caught the clenched jaw, the locked muscles—he knew all too well each raw emotion coursing through the man.
“The price remains?” Tuaghal asked.
“Aye, twenty suns, plus another ten if you kill the leader,” reeve Amdah said.
The Marauders were ten. With Tuaghal taking at least three shares, that still left more than two suns. Enough for another horse. That was, if the bastard, Tuaghal, didn’t cheat him out of his pay. The donkey bit him again. This time, he punched the beast’s nose. Two suns, he thought. Soon, he’d be rich.
At nightfall, Tuaghal ordered them to the local tavern to eat and inform them of the situation and his plan. A warm meal, some bread, some watered down ale—Drangar felt better than he had since the gelding had croaked its last. Laden with a wooden plate of stew and bread, and a mug of bitter, he looked around the taproom, searching for a place to sit. To his happy surprise it was Tadc who signaled him, yelling “Over here, Ralchanh!”
Few warriors in the Marauders used last names, that honor was reserved for warleaders and the warlord. Even fewer among them knew his last name. Of all people, he had not expected that Tadc would be one of them.
Ralchanh. Why would someone like him remember my name? Drangar wondered as he joined Tadc, Una and Finnen at their table. Finnen used her spoon to point at the empty spot on the bench beside Tadc.
“Keep your back to the wall, some fuckers don’t like you,” she said.
She didn’t have to say more, he knew the ones she meant. A few days ago he had tried to juggle sitting on a log by their fire while keeping his food and drink balanced in his hands. It hadn’t ended well. Yet, another thing he’d never do again. Now, with plate and mug set on the table, he slid onto the bench. The sheathed sword strapped to his waist thumped against the seat.
“You sharpened that pig sticker?” Una asked.
“Aye,” he replied, patting the weapon he’d had with him since his escape from the Eye. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Shitty steel,” Tadc said, shoveling stew into his mouth.
Una nodded. “Miracle the bugger hasn’t broken yet,” she added.
Tadc snorted, Finnen chuckled, and Drangar tried to suppress his blush. But the blood crept to his cheeks anyway.
“No worries, runt, we’ll find you a proper blade when we’re at camp,” Tadc said, slapping Drangar’s back.
“Silence, fuckers!” Tuaghal’s shout drowned out all noise.
The room fell quiet.
The bastard had a smug look on his face; but as his gaze passed over Drangar, it darkened into something sinister. “Two gold suns each, the village promised us as reward to fight off a gang of robbers,” he said.
Drangar squinted his eyes. That wasn’t what he had overheard. The total was thirty gold, they were ten, Tuaghal was entitled to more; three shares were standard, which left twenty-one gold for nine people to split.
Tadc leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, Ralchanh, don’t argue the point. He’s pissed off at you as it is.”
That’s the second time he’s called me that. Why the Scales does he remember my last name? The answer was of little consequence. What mattered was that Tadc was on his side. Drangar heeded the man’s advice.
“The reeve has no idea how many bastards will attack,” Tuaghal continued, “says the number varies. Could be five, could be thirty. We’ll have our runners watch the three paths into the village, the rest will wait and rush to form a shield wall to take on the buggers.”
“A wall of ten,” Una muttered. “Could work, if the bastards are just rabble. We’re fucked if they aren’t.”
“What about if they come from all three directions?” Drangar blurted out.
“Pisswit,” Tuaghal growled. “Of course.”
“The runt’s got a point,” Tadc said. “And you damn well know it. This place has more holes than Haldain’s king by the time the rebels were through with him.” A chuckle rippled through the mercenaries.
The veteran went on. “It’s got no wall, a few fences, nothing that’ll stop a hare, much less brigands. We can’t control spit in this place, especially when we don’t know whether they have a spy here.”
Tuaghal shook his head. “The villagers will help us with them fortifications,” he said. “They’ll close gaps between houses, rig up some surprises and all that, so the robbers only have the roads.”
“Still leaves us with three roads through which they can enter,” Rathyen said, breaking her usual silence. “We need to control their entrance.”
“Block all ways but one?” Tuaghal asked.
It was plainly obvious to Drangar as if the older mercenary had never considered that option. “Some leader,” he muttered.
Finnen must have heard him for she chuckled.
“Aye,” Sitric said. “Rathyen’s right, we need to control the field.” Looking over at Tughal, he added, “All this time you had me thinking you’d been Mireynh’s messenger-boy. Thought you learned something running for the old man. Where’s your mind at, Tughal?”
A lot of the mercenaries questioned where his mind was; but Tuaghal literally jumped for Sitric, grabbed the man’s tunic and pulled him off his chair. “Don’t you fucking mock me!” he said.
Sitric must have seen it coming because he suddenly had a dagger pressed against Tuaghal’s waist. “Picking on the pisswit is one thing,” he said, “he hasn’t the balls to stand up to you. But choosing to attack someone who’s been fighting at your side for years is beyond stupid. Let go, or my collar will be the last thing your hands ever clasp.”
The words were ice water to Tuaghal’s fiery rage. He came to his senses and released the other.
“Now behave,” Sitric said, smiling as he sat back down.
“Wagons,” Finnen broke the deathly silence.
“Pisswit’s lover is right,” Sitric said.
Another insult. Drangar felt as if he was back in the Eye where it mattered not that he had been the most diligent of students. Here he was the youngest, the butt of every joke—always the runt!
He took hold of the tankard and drank. Now they were attacking Finnen as well. Scales! he thought. Seething, he emptied the tankard, called for another, shoveled food into his mouth and drank again. Part of him still listened to the plan the mercenaries were forming, a bigger part imagined tearing Sitric and Tuaghal limb from limb.
Sleep came and went as Drangar tossed and turned. Images flooded his mind; images of his clawed hands ripping apart Tuaghal, ripping out the man’s guts one inch at a time. He woke staring at his hands in the moonlight, expecting to see blood, so vivid were the dreams that he almost smelled the shit dripping from the entrails.
Over and over—each time a few calming breaths, and he lay back down, only to sit up again as another form of the same blood-soaked nightmare shot through his mind.
The sun was rising as he woke for the fourth time.
“Runt, you all right?” Tadc asked. “You were panting and muttering. Sexy dream?” The older man smirked at him as they washed in the village pond.
“Something like that,” he replied.
“Heard the plan?”
“We block all but one path, wait for the brigands, and kill ‘em, right?”
“Aye, guess Tuaghal’s and Sitric’s pissing contest wasn’t that important,” the other said, chuckling.
“Morning, you bastards,” Finnen greeted them, undressing. She jumped into the pond and dammit if she wasn’t the very vision of vitality. Drangar stared, growing hard.
“Perfect,” he said, realizing too late he had actually spoken the word. And, of course, he wasn’t the only one around to hear it.
Tadc laughed as Drangar turned away from the man. Another scarlet tide shoved its way to his face. Good morning, indeed.
“What’s so funny?” Finnen asked. He caught her eyes as she looked at his crotch. “Oh,” she smiled.
“Aye, methinks he likes you,” Tadc chuckled.
Embarrassed, Drangar walked off.
They drafted the villagers to help with blocking two of the roads and every other gap or opening that allowed access to Little Creek. Wagons, wheelbarrows, barrels—even brute logs of uncut wood were piled up to fortify the barricades. The task was complete just a little past noon.
“Pisswit,” Tuaghal smirked. By now, the smug son-of-a-bitch was the only one left amused by the insult. Drangar’s half-remembered dream from the night before flashed before his eyes. “You’re on the roof next to the northerly road. Take your bow, and warn us if they approach from there.”
“I’m no bowman,” Drangar said. “Can barely hit a barn from ten paces, you know that.”
“Good time to learn then, Pisswit Bowman,” Tuaghal sneered.
“Fuck you, Tuaghal,” Tadc snapped. “The runt said he can’t shoot for shit, and you still want him there? You want to get him killed?” he was tired of Tughal’s antics. “Aw fuck it! Fight him now, one on one, to the death.”
“You’re playing wet-nurse to the pisswit, Tadc?” Tuaghal growled.
“You’ve been acting like a cunt for a week now, Tuaghal, how about you put your money—”
Drangar interrupted Tadc by placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “but it’s got to be me.”
“Oh Librarian Pisswit has got some balls after all,” Tuaghal wouldn’t stop pushing.
Drangar took a calming breath. I mustn’t lose my nerve, he repeated in the silence of his mind. The man was twice his age, and had been a mercenary for longer than Drangar had been alive. And who was he but a child compared to him? Sure, the Sons of Traksor had trained him since he could walk, but so far he had only seen two real battles. Did he really stand a chance against Tughal?
Mireynh’s code gave him the right to challenge the older man. Calm, he reminded himself, he had to stay calm. They were on the edge of battle. It could come at any moment. This just wasn’t the right time. Drangar opened his mouth to keep the peace—to dismiss the insult like the thousands before it.
“You’ve insulted me for the last time, Tuaghal. By the rules of Mireynh’s Marauders I challenge you to the death. I shall wait until you have donned your armor, then I will kill you.” Instead, that came out.
Tughal dropped his mask of pleasantries, making way for a countenance of hatred. He had never liked Drangar, that was no secret, and now he’d given the older man the chance to kill him. “I need no armor to beat you,” Tuaghal said through thin, tight lips. He’d unsheathed his sword just as he’d unsheathed his true face. “I’ll end you, now.”
This was not the reaction Drangar had expected from the older mercenary. Neither had he thought the man this fast. He was still drawing his sword from the scabbard when Tuaghal charged. Only a lunge to the right, his opponent’s left, saved him from being impaled.
Now his blade was free, just in time to stop a downward chop. The blows rained and Drangar gave as hard as his opponent did. Each of them blocked the other’s attacks. For a moment Drangar wished for a shield, it would have taken pressure off his sword. The blade was too short for a two-handed grip to be useful, and the hilt barely supported his left hand either.
Anya, his weapons teacher, had once attacked him like this. “Remember, always keep one eye on your opponent’s feet, they will tell you what he plans, and give you the chance to take him down.” The words had barely left her mouth when she had already tripped him, sending him to the ground.
For months, he had bugged her to teach him how, now those painful training lessons ended the duel. Tuaghal went to the ground, and Drangar’s blade cut the older man’s throat.
“Guess we need to divide the money by nine now,” Tadc said.
The others looked at Drangar as if he was Lesganagh’s Servant incarnate, and for a moment he felt shame at all their attention. He had only done what was just. All quarrels must be resolved. The duel had done just that.
“Well, runt, all his stuff is yours now,” Tadc said. “That includes the chain armor. I suggest you put it on.”
They came later that afternoon. From the west. With the setting sun in their backs, they had the blinding rays on their side, and despite the mercenaries’ wall holding, the brigands had training themselves and began to rain arrows on them. Tadc had tasked Drangar with taking down anyone scaling their makeshift barricades.
Once or twice he slipped on the blood of the enemy, still unused to the weight of the chain mail and the heavier boots Tuaghal had bequeathed him. Then, from the center of the village, an angry roar sounded, steel clashed on steel and wood. Now was the time to join his fellow warriors.
He rushed back to the village round. The enemy had his comrades surrounded! They stood in a circle, shields outward, back to back, seven warriors against twenty. He saw Tadc take a blow to the helmeted head. For a moment the old mercenary swayed, tried to remain upright. Then he went down.
The rage returned—the furor he felt whenever a brother went down. Kerral had once taken him out of the wall, reprimanding him. He was too uncontrolled for the wall, too undisciplined. Tadc had mocked him, but he’d been kind. Now all control was gone, leaving behind a growing frenzy of wrath and blood.
Another mercenary went down; another brethren fallen.
Drangar went in, howling, barreling into the mob of brigands. If they realized he was among them the moment his blade cleft into the first one’s skull, he couldn’t tell. It mattered not. His sword stuck, he tore his victim’s axe from twitching hands, and chopped into the next in line. The woman fell, almost yanking free his newly acquired weapon. A third and a fourth, one with a spitted, the other with a bashed in face. They all went down.
When the mercenaries saw him rage amongst the enemy, they pushed harder. Blood gushed from a hacked neck, drenching his face. The axe was lodged in the man’s spine, so Drangar dove for his opponent’s sword and slashed into someone’s feet.
He slashed, stabbed, and hacked.
Then it was over.
Tadc lived, the blow had only stunned. Now the older warrior stood, covered in blood soaked mud. Finnen was alive as well and she smiled and laughed as she flung herself at him. They kissed—a taste of blood, sweat and spice. Six mercenaries had survived; it was a much better number to split the thirty gold suns with, but at what cost? With the help of the villagers they carried out the dead and prepared a pyre. Kindling and straw took spark to flame and soon three and thirty, mercenaries and brigands, burned to ash.
Elated, four suns were a big enough fortune, and with Tuaghal’s gear and horse, now his, Drangar decided to pay for the night’s carousing. He had no idea just how much drink a single gold sun could buy.
“…will you stop with the drink already? We both know your mood when you’re drunk.” Kerral’s words belonged to the past.
He woke; someone was mistreating drums inside his head. Next to him lay Finnen, naked just like him. Had they fucked? Was it good? He smiled, though he remembered nothing. His stomach wasn’t as forgetful. Swaying, he got to his feet, stumbled out of the room, tried to get his bearings. Where the Scales was he? A barn? How fitting. The air still carried the stench of burnt flesh.
His queasy stomach rebelled, and he barely made it out, stumbling headfirst into the nearby thornleaf. He didn’t care. All that mattered was getting it all out.
He upheaved and spewed, whatever had been in his belly now forced its way back up.
“Ignore him, first the others,” the bush said.
“If you say so,” the bush answered.
Drangar threw up again.
“Money saved is money earned,” the bush muttered.
Drangar vomited a third time.
Water, he needed water, the taste in his mouth was beyond vile. Crawling to the trough he saw someone else had taken a midnight stroll to quench their thirst. “Whatta night,” he said, chuckling. “Not that I remember nothing.” He remembered Finnen, gloriously naked when he woke up.
His hands cupped water, and the cold liquid trickled into Drangar’s mouth. He gargled and spat it out, repeated the process a few times to make sure not a drop of bile or booze or food remained. The smell of burnt corpses didn’t make things easy on both him and his stomach. Part of him felt hunger for pork, the other was disgusted that the smell of human flesh actually roused his appetite.
A cool drink of water was surely bound to sate his craving. Only now did he notice that the one he was sharing the trough with hadn’t moved at all. Silly fucker, he thought, imagining what the bloke would feel like in the morning. “One sore muscle, his whole entire body,” he chuckled. It was a funny image, but these folks were his friends, his siblings—brethren. Taking pity on him, he decided to wake him up.
A poke did nothing, so he shoved. The body slid off the trough and fell back-first onto the ground. Nothing. Just silence and immobility. “What the fuck?” Drangar muttered and stumbled over to the other side to wake the man.
Shaking the other’s shoulders, he heard a slurping sound. Moonlight won over the low hanging clouds, and he looked into Tadc’s face. The older man’s eyes were wide, the gash in his throat even wider.
Drangar stumbled to his feet, leapt back, and fell on his ass. Still, he scuttled backwards, his eyes never leaving the corpse. Someone had killed Tadc! He had to tell Finnen! He had to alert the others!
Rushing back into the barn, he slipped as he reached where they had made their bed. Fumbling in the dark, he reached out to find her body slippery, pawing at her, his hands gliding up her belly over her breasts, to the gash in her throat.
He heard a howl; a wail unlike anything made by man or beast, and realized it was him making those sounds. The world turned black.
When he came to, he was lying in a ditch. The donkey—his donkey—was nibbling at his face. He was cold. Had all this been a dream? Tadc and Finnen couldn’t have been dead; he had just had too much to drink, that was all. Struggling to his feet, he noticed he was still naked. There were horses grazing in the field. They looked at him, once, and quickly decided their food was more interesting.
“How the fuck did I get here?” he asked.
The donkey’s heehaw was the only answer he got.
Looking around, he saw the village in the east. “Must’ve walked out,” he muttered and began his trek back.
When he reached the first house, he noticed the smell of burnt flesh again. “Have fun in the Halls of the Gods,” he muttered to the smoking pyre, then turned towards the entrance to the village.
He took a step back, bumping into the donkey, stunned at a display of nightmares. The reeve’s head was on a spear, the weapon’s spike poking out of the bald pate. On the other side of the path opposite the reeve’s head stood the man’s body held up by more spears.
“What the fuck?” Drangar breathed.
A little further down a child of maybe five years lay bisected, the girl’s entrails looking like a grisly tether between legs and torso. There were others. Impaled, beheaded, dozens. One woman still clutched her infant child against her, both nailed to the wall by a sword. He saw Una, a look of terror chiseled into her face. Her throat was a mess.
“How?” Drangar stuttered. “What?” he mumbled. He caught his reflection in a window and saw an image straight from his nightmares. This was no dream but him, caked in dried blood and mud. He looked at his hands, red. His arms were the same.
His mind reeled. He couldn’t have! How could he have? The image of destruction showed quite clearly he had, but how? No, he refused to believe it. Didn’t want it to be true. But, deep down, he knew what had killed them, he knew. The deaths of Tadc and Finnen were no nightmare, either, but why. Why would he kill any of them?
He found the trough and Tadc with the gaping cut in his throat. Inside the barn was Finnen, her throat a gash like Tadc’s. It wasn’t me, he told himself, it wasn’t me!
“What am I?” Drangar asked. “A mindless beast? A vicious killer? Why?” He looked up at Lesganagh’s glowing orb, hidden behind slivers of cloud. “They say you blessed me. Please tell me, o Lord of Sun and War, how could I do this? Is this what I am? A killer? Is this all that I am? I beg you, please tell me. Am I just a killer?”
He expected no answer. The cloud darkened the sun, leaving him in shadow. If Lesganagh said nothing, he knew where he might find answers.
Drangar left the next morning. The village of Little Creek was now ablaze; its people and the mercenaries, his victims, burning alongside the houses and all that had made the place home to those who had died there. He wore his padded tunic, Tuaghal’s chain mail, his cloak, and rode the mercenary’s horse.
Thirty golden suns lay heavy in his money bag, they had done the job, had defeated the brigands. This was the money they all had earned. His share, four gold, he would keep; the rest would go to the families of the deceased. As for the valuables in the other bag—he would donate those to a temple of Eanaigh, maybe it would do some good there.
“I’ve come to prove myself worthy of your services,” Drangar explained to the statue for the fifth time.
Finally, the thing moved its head and regarded him. “Why?”
At last the dwarf responded. “I need to know if I am worthy… if I’m worth anything at all.”
“The Place of Contemplation is to prove whether you want our craft for yourself, if you will honor it, and if you are worthy. This is the contract between dwarves and gods. If mortals want our work, they must prove their worth. Leave your belongings here, only your clothing is permitted. Then enter.” The dwarf pointed at the hole in the far side of the wall.
“And then?” Drangar asked.
“You shall contemplate,” the dwarf answered, turning away.
Asking anything else seemed pointless. This was the first time this dwarf had spoken more than the one question it had asked at the beginning of each day. “Why are you here?”
He slipped out of his cloak, dropped weapons belt and money bag, and left them lying where he stood. Then he walked through the hole, and entered a luminescent room. Its smooth walls reflected the glow that seemed to come from underneath the floor. Both floor and walls were of a greenish hue. Drangar had no knowledge of stones, would’ve called any kind of rock just that.
He was alone, in an empty room.
Writing appeared on the wall opposite the door.
“Who are you?”
“Drangar Ralchanh,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Listen, I already told that fellow outside…”
The writing changed. “Who are you?”
“Is this a joke?” he asked. “Fucking Scales.”
“Who are you?”
“Drangar Ralchanh.”
Time passed. There was food when he needed it, water too. And every day he stood before the asking wall, wondering if it would ask anything else. The more he spoke his name, the more wrong it felt. Ralchanh, the name of a mother he did not know, the name of a father he didn’t know either. Who was he? How did he get here? Why was he here? What did he want to live for? Where would he go? Would he sell his honor to the highest bidder? Or would he stand for justice?
The questions were varied yet still the same. Sometimes he was left with his thoughts, staring at the wall, waiting for it to ask.
How long had he been there? His beard said a good long while, fingernails and toenails said the same.
He woke, stared at the wall.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Drangar Ralgon,” he muttered. Where the name had come from he didn’t know. It just felt right.
“What do you want?”
“To be a better man. To atone for Little Creek.”
“You are worthy.”