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Description
Murhan: The Task of the Warrior
by Bettina Lege (2008)

(For copyright of my cover see note below)

From the marshy plain the fog rises, even though the sun is not even visible yet. An unhealthy region, an unhealthy climate, nobody in their right mind is at war in the middle of the rainy season. Now the alarm gongs can be heard from the city, apparently only at dawn the Tetraosi have realized that an enemy army is standing outside their walls.

I will finally go into my last battle for the King of Letran. Then I can lead my beloved Firat back to the tents, and we will take our marriage vows in front of our prince, as we should. And Nefut, my son, my firstborn, whose forelock I shaved already two years ago, will finally be one of the Darashy men.

It's about time. I am too old to go to war for other men, and last winter already I swore to myself, that from now on I would only wield an axe to chop firewood for the forge. And yet here I am, looking at the towering city wall behind which our enemies are entrenched, as a servant of a foreign king who bought my devotion with gold and the promise to give me protection from my pursuers. I should have back then, after the death of Nefut's mother, returned to the tents of the Darashy, instead of travelling further north to take another employment as a mercenary. I'm tired of the fight, and it hasn't even started today.

The sound of the gongs changes, they call to gather their troops. Do they really have enough men in their city to dare a breakthrough? If I were inside the walls, I would stay there and wait until my opponents' animals die because they have sunk into the mud up to their bellies and can no longer free themselves. They have a young, inexperienced king, they say, a hotshot who wants to prove himself, one who lacks the advice of a wiser man. An easy victim. So I will win this battle for my master and take this city for the King of Letran today, for a siege is out of the question.

Cursed be the hour in which I agreed to lead the army of the Letrani to the walls of Tetraos just so that I could visit my prince... No, I will thank the good gods, for otherwise I would never have met Firat as an unmarried woman, the light of my eyes, mother of my second-born. Do you already carry him under your heart, beloved, our son? I will never again let one of my sons grow up in a foreign land, far from the tribes, among savages and indecent barbarians, even if Nefut now and then amazes me with his knowledge of the scriptures. And yet there is something in him that frightens me, a darkness, an emptiness, a thoughtlessness where the feelings of others are concerned. He knows the precepts, but he doesn't understand what makes up their spirit, doesn't understand what holds a tribe together.

The gongs fall silent. Geran, my second, straightens his shoulders, his scale armour clanking softly with this jerky movement. His hand now rests on the pommel of his sword.

I stroke the hilt of my own sword, the smooth surface so familiar. Today shall be the last time I draw this blade. Today shall be the last day I fight wars that are not those of the Darashy. "Let them come!" I call to the men once more. "Wait until their formation breaks up on the plain! Keep your distance from the gateway, they have the advantage downhill!"

Dark and light faces, young and old men look at me, nod, grip their swords and spears tighter. The cavalrymen are on foot today, and I can see how uncomfortable they are, but I too am standing here with bare feet in the mud that covers my toes, further into the centre of the plain you sink in up to your ankles.

The gate opens slowly. Here come the defenders, also on foot. They know their ground, know that the horses would be lost on the plain. Their king leads the way in a white, flowing cloak. A young man, full of hope. I hear him spurring his men on, but I also notice the restrained tremor in his voice, a roughness that masks his uncertainty, his terror at the enemy, so close to his gates and yet not close enough to simply overrun him. No formation will help you here, young king, only experience, and you lack that. He seems barely older than my son, boyish fuzz on his cheeks. Who will be victorious today, youthful valour or the experience of an aged warrior?

The king draws his sword, he charges ahead, his nobles follow him, his soldiers, his guards and the citizens of his city. The sun rises above the horizon and the gleam of armour dazzles us.

*

Once they are here, below the city's fortifications, the reflections of the sun will no longer blind us, so we let them come and reach the plain, still stony and solid close to the road up to the city gate, but further away increasingly damp and muddy, the wet clay everywhere, which closes with a firm grip around the ankles of a careless man and drags him to his doom if he is not careful in battle.

The young king charges ahead further, his entourage consisting of equally young men. Is there no one among them who is a real opponent? Is there no one among them who justifies the drawing of my sword?

We wait. And indeed, as soon as the Tetraosi units reach the plain, they scatter, looking for suitable opponents among my units. If they had stuck together, they might have stood a chance, but now we can push them back to the foot of their fortress and crush them between our army and their own city.

The king looks around for a worthy opponent, against the attacks of my light-armed men who circle their slingshots, his Devoted shield him. Take him into your care, your young king, I would like to call out to them, return to your city, otherwise he will not grow a day older, for he dares to play the game of men.

But the young king is not so hasty, I realize. The road up to the city is blocked. As the haze slowly clears, I recognize even more troops in front of the city gate, many more than expected. At least, no archers will be firing from up there, visibility is too poor to distinguish friend from foe at this distance. They knew we were coming, they prepared themselves. So you are a worthy opponent for me after all, young king? Will you stand up to the 'Destroyer of cities'?

Geran looks at me questioningly, I let him go, to his people, the men from Berresh who have been loyal to me for eight years. I silently wish Tyrima's blessing on him, then I draw my sword.

For a moment I hold the blade steady, feeling its weight, six tar of iron in my hand, then in both, and I walk through the viscous mud that tries to hold my feet. The sun will not draw the moisture back into the sky for long today, the clouds have not cleared with the dawn. Soon it will rain again. The city must be taken before then, otherwise even the path up to the gate will be too muddy to manage it uphill against the foe.

One of the young king's Devoted jumps into my path with his shield raised, but I underrun his cover, stab him in the groin and see the astonishment in his eyes when he realizes what has happened to him. And I am already pulling my blade free again. One of my bodyguards cuts off the head of the man sinking to his knees, now he is no longer an opponent, so I take care of the next one.

Filled with fear, the Tetraosi raise their eyes to my bloody sword. "The snake blade!" I hear them shout in horror. "It's Murhan himself! Save the king!"

Like chickens that see the jackal, mindless in their panic, the Devoted stand in their own way, and we slaughter them, drag ourselves through the ground the blood has made even wetter. Only their king remains calm. He remains standing, he gathers himself, he will fight me as fearlessly as a man can in the face of the stories my enemies spread about me.

The rest of his Devoted gather around him like chicks around a mother hen, trying with fearful voices to dissuade him from his plan.

I order my bodyguards to stay behind and take a few steps closer to the king. I am ready to fight a duel with him while our armies fight around us. It's impossible to tell who has the upper hand at the moment, you can't see much at a distance in the hazy air.

The young king holds his sword in his hand, it trembles slightly, and he grips it tighter. "For my unborn son and my ancestors, I will stand my ground against you," he says so quietly that besides me only his Devoted will hear. So he too is a father, he too is fighting this battle for the future of his child. His sword is so much shorter than mine, he will have a hard time standing his ground against me.

I take two more steps closer, now I can reach him with my sword, but he is on his guard, fending off my attack. Even though he is young, he must have had a capable teacher. He is strong and resists the pressure with which I try to force the sword out of his hand, suddenly pulls his blade away and makes an advance of his own, causing me to stumble for a moment. I drop to one knee, have to support myself with one hand, and he could cut off my limbs, but he pauses, as if he can't believe seeing me so defenceless, as if he fears it's a trick, but I'm out of breath, the fight against his Devoted and against the mud has already exhausted me.

Not wanting to make him regret his hesitation, I thrust the sword one-handed forwards, against his legs, but he leaps nimbly backwards, bringing his shield between us so that I have time to rise. I will see this fight through, no matter the cost. And for the return of my sons to the tents, I will win it.

Now he dares to advance, quickly, powerfully, but I sense where the blade is headed and dodge it. And once again he thrusts with all his strength into the void. Then he pauses, already breathing harder, his chest crammed into a splendidly chiselled breastplate, on his head the heavy helmet of his ancestors. I can see the beads of sweat glistening on his nose. How often do the northern city dweller make fun of the Oshey's fighting style, their abandonment of armour and shield. But in this humidity-saturated air, I'm probably the one who has it easier in our fight.

I don't allow the king to extend the pause long enough for him to catch his breath, but once again he brings his shield between us. At the last moment, I prevent my blade from biting into the metal edge and getting stuck. The king never raises his shield completely, he relies on his speed, he doesn't want to lose his vision so as not to miss the moment in which he can underrun my defence, but till now he has not succeeded. I always manage to parry his advance in time.

His breath comes in gasps - and my chest aches. But again I attack, sliding off the glittering metal of his helmet, then his sword stops the further path of my blade. Like me, he will fight until one of us fails in the care of his sons. Again he backs away from me, no longer leaping, but still raising his chin defiantly, exposing his unprotected throat above the low held shield.

So I wait, let him approach again, take his blow with my sword, but this time I don't swing out with my weapon as he retreats into the protection of his shield, but let myself fall forwards with all my weight into the thrust.

And the tip of my sword leaves an ugly red mark across his neck.

Too late he pulls up the shield, then suddenly realizes that his blood is gushing from the large wound on his neck, staining the white coat red.

He slumps down, raises his sword once more to strike at me. But on his knees he can no longer reach me, a leisurely step backwards brings me to safety.

*

The young king's Devoted realize that their lord has been hit, they rush towards me, I take another step back, clawing my toes into the warm mud, to not lose my balance from exhaustion. If I show weakness now, they will pounce on me like hyenas.

"You may bring his body back to your city," I call out to them, startled by the hoarseness of my voice. The young king is dead, so the battle is decided, and Tetraos is at the mercy of the Letrani troops.

Fleetingly, I cleanse my sword and let it disappear into its sheath. My hands tremble, too surreal is the sudden end of this life for the fight. I long for Firat, for her soothing voice, her soft body, which embracing reminds me of the life a man can give, even if he took the lives of others before.

My work is done, I beckon my bodyguards to follow me to the pavilion of the Letrani vizier. It is not the warrior's task to conduct negotiations.

* * *

Copyright of my cover above:

The knife handle (Kozuka) on the cover: Photo of the handle of a knife from the sword accessories (9.7 cm x 1.4 cm, thickness 0.6 cm), made of a copper-silver alloy (shibuichi), individual elements of the depiction are emphasised with gold and silver. The obverse depicts a bearded man holding a bowl in his raised right hand, from which a shadowy dragon rises, by the Japanese artist Hamano Yasuyuki (18th century), signature on the reverse of the handle: Otsuryuken Yasuyuki, a cropped and edited version was used.
Provenance/rights: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, gift from Herman A. E. and Paul C. Jaehne, 1943, in their possession from 1915 to 1943, accession number: 43.120.429, licenced under Public Domain (creativecommons.org/publicdoma… ),
I used the image images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages… , the object cropped and rotated with GIMP, 2023,
www.metmuseum.org/art/collecti… .

The cover itself I made 2023 with GIMP and MS Paint, for Latin letters I used MS Segoe Print (© 2008 The Monotype Corporation. All Rights Reserved) (learn.microsoft.com/en-us/typo… ), since the font was bought together with my Windows 10 Pro-Licence in 2016, MS allows using them free, even on the internet, even for commercial uses (learn.microsoft.com/en-us/typo… ).
For the Sogdian letters, which impersonate the letters of my fantasy-language 'Taribit', saying 'Murhan' on the cover, I used 'Noto Sans Sogdian' (Copyright 2012 Google Inc. All Rights Reserved) (fonts.google.com/noto/specimen… ), the use of this Google font is regulated by the SIL Open Font Licence Version 1.1 from 2007 (openfontlicense.org/ ), this means, among other things, that I am permitted to use my graphics created with Sogdian characters freely, including on the Internet.

The original German version of this story I wrote in 2008, this English version of the story I made in 2024 with help of Google Translator and 'Language Tool'.

* * *

There does in fact exists fanart to this story, back from 2009, see: and the linearts: by Muenchgesang

Description
Murhan: The Task of the Warrior
by Bettina Lege (2008)

(For copyright of my cover see note below)

From the marshy plain the fog rises, even though the sun is not even visible yet. An unhealthy region, an unhealthy climate, nobody in their right mind is at war in the middle of the rainy season. Now the alarm gongs can be heard from the city, apparently only at dawn the Tetraosi have realized that an enemy army is standing outside their walls.

I will finally go into my last battle for the King of Letran. Then I can lead my beloved Firat back to the tents, and we will take our marriage vows in front of our prince, as we should. And Nefut, my son, my firstborn, whose forelock I shaved already two years ago, will finally be one of the Darashy men.

It's about time. I am too old to go to war for other men, and last winter already I swore to myself, that from now on I would only wield an axe to chop firewood for the forge. And yet here I am, looking at the towering city wall behind which our enemies are entrenched, as a servant of a foreign king who bought my devotion with gold and the promise to give me protection from my pursuers. I should have back then, after the death of Nefut's mother, returned to the tents of the Darashy, instead of travelling further north to take another employment as a mercenary. I'm tired of the fight, and it hasn't even started today.

The sound of the gongs changes, they call to gather their troops. Do they really have enough men in their city to dare a breakthrough? If I were inside the walls, I would stay there and wait until my opponents' animals die because they have sunk into the mud up to their bellies and can no longer free themselves. They have a young, inexperienced king, they say, a hotshot who wants to prove himself, one who lacks the advice of a wiser man. An easy victim. So I will win this battle for my master and take this city for the King of Letran today, for a siege is out of the question.

Cursed be the hour in which I agreed to lead the army of the Letrani to the walls of Tetraos just so that I could visit my prince... No, I will thank the good gods, for otherwise I would never have met Firat as an unmarried woman, the light of my eyes, mother of my second-born. Do you already carry him under your heart, beloved, our son? I will never again let one of my sons grow up in a foreign land, far from the tribes, among savages and indecent barbarians, even if Nefut now and then amazes me with his knowledge of the scriptures. And yet there is something in him that frightens me, a darkness, an emptiness, a thoughtlessness where the feelings of others are concerned. He knows the precepts, but he doesn't understand what makes up their spirit, doesn't understand what holds a tribe together.

The gongs fall silent. Geran, my second, straightens his shoulders, his scale armour clanking softly with this jerky movement. His hand now rests on the pommel of his sword.

I stroke the hilt of my own sword, the smooth surface so familiar. Today shall be the last time I draw this blade. Today shall be the last day I fight wars that are not those of the Darashy. "Let them come!" I call to the men once more. "Wait until their formation breaks up on the plain! Keep your distance from the gateway, they have the advantage downhill!"

Dark and light faces, young and old men look at me, nod, grip their swords and spears tighter. The cavalrymen are on foot today, and I can see how uncomfortable they are, but I too am standing here with bare feet in the mud that covers my toes, further into the centre of the plain you sink in up to your ankles.

The gate opens slowly. Here come the defenders, also on foot. They know their ground, know that the horses would be lost on the plain. Their king leads the way in a white, flowing cloak. A young man, full of hope. I hear him spurring his men on, but I also notice the restrained tremor in his voice, a roughness that masks his uncertainty, his terror at the enemy, so close to his gates and yet not close enough to simply overrun him. No formation will help you here, young king, only experience, and you lack that. He seems barely older than my son, boyish fuzz on his cheeks. Who will be victorious today, youthful valour or the experience of an aged warrior?

The king draws his sword, he charges ahead, his nobles follow him, his soldiers, his guards and the citizens of his city. The sun rises above the horizon and the gleam of armour dazzles us.

*

Once they are here, below the city's fortifications, the reflections of the sun will no longer blind us, so we let them come and reach the plain, still stony and solid close to the road up to the city gate, but further away increasingly damp and muddy, the wet clay everywhere, which closes with a firm grip around the ankles of a careless man and drags him to his doom if he is not careful in battle.

The young king charges ahead further, his entourage consisting of equally young men. Is there no one among them who is a real opponent? Is there no one among them who justifies the drawing of my sword?

We wait. And indeed, as soon as the Tetraosi units reach the plain, they scatter, looking for suitable opponents among my units. If they had stuck together, they might have stood a chance, but now we can push them back to the foot of their fortress and crush them between our army and their own city.

The king looks around for a worthy opponent, against the attacks of my light-armed men who circle their slingshots, his Devoted shield him. Take him into your care, your young king, I would like to call out to them, return to your city, otherwise he will not grow a day older, for he dares to play the game of men.

But the young king is not so hasty, I realize. The road up to the city is blocked. As the haze slowly clears, I recognize even more troops in front of the city gate, many more than expected. At least, no archers will be firing from up there, visibility is too poor to distinguish friend from foe at this distance. They knew we were coming, they prepared themselves. So you are a worthy opponent for me after all, young king? Will you stand up to the 'Destroyer of cities'?

Geran looks at me questioningly, I let him go, to his people, the men from Berresh who have been loyal to me for eight years. I silently wish Tyrima's blessing on him, then I draw my sword.

For a moment I hold the blade steady, feeling its weight, six tar of iron in my hand, then in both, and I walk through the viscous mud that tries to hold my feet. The sun will not draw the moisture back into the sky for long today, the clouds have not cleared with the dawn. Soon it will rain again. The city must be taken before then, otherwise even the path up to the gate will be too muddy to manage it uphill against the foe.

One of the young king's Devoted jumps into my path with his shield raised, but I underrun his cover, stab him in the groin and see the astonishment in his eyes when he realizes what has happened to him. And I am already pulling my blade free again. One of my bodyguards cuts off the head of the man sinking to his knees, now he is no longer an opponent, so I take care of the next one.

Filled with fear, the Tetraosi raise their eyes to my bloody sword. "The snake blade!" I hear them shout in horror. "It's Murhan himself! Save the king!"

Like chickens that see the jackal, mindless in their panic, the Devoted stand in their own way, and we slaughter them, drag ourselves through the ground the blood has made even wetter. Only their king remains calm. He remains standing, he gathers himself, he will fight me as fearlessly as a man can in the face of the stories my enemies spread about me.

The rest of his Devoted gather around him like chicks around a mother hen, trying with fearful voices to dissuade him from his plan.

I order my bodyguards to stay behind and take a few steps closer to the king. I am ready to fight a duel with him while our armies fight around us. It's impossible to tell who has the upper hand at the moment, you can't see much at a distance in the hazy air.

The young king holds his sword in his hand, it trembles slightly, and he grips it tighter. "For my unborn son and my ancestors, I will stand my ground against you," he says so quietly that besides me only his Devoted will hear. So he too is a father, he too is fighting this battle for the future of his child. His sword is so much shorter than mine, he will have a hard time standing his ground against me.

I take two more steps closer, now I can reach him with my sword, but he is on his guard, fending off my attack. Even though he is young, he must have had a capable teacher. He is strong and resists the pressure with which I try to force the sword out of his hand, suddenly pulls his blade away and makes an advance of his own, causing me to stumble for a moment. I drop to one knee, have to support myself with one hand, and he could cut off my limbs, but he pauses, as if he can't believe seeing me so defenceless, as if he fears it's a trick, but I'm out of breath, the fight against his Devoted and against the mud has already exhausted me.

Not wanting to make him regret his hesitation, I thrust the sword one-handed forwards, against his legs, but he leaps nimbly backwards, bringing his shield between us so that I have time to rise. I will see this fight through, no matter the cost. And for the return of my sons to the tents, I will win it.

Now he dares to advance, quickly, powerfully, but I sense where the blade is headed and dodge it. And once again he thrusts with all his strength into the void. Then he pauses, already breathing harder, his chest crammed into a splendidly chiselled breastplate, on his head the heavy helmet of his ancestors. I can see the beads of sweat glistening on his nose. How often do the northern city dweller make fun of the Oshey's fighting style, their abandonment of armour and shield. But in this humidity-saturated air, I'm probably the one who has it easier in our fight.

I don't allow the king to extend the pause long enough for him to catch his breath, but once again he brings his shield between us. At the last moment, I prevent my blade from biting into the metal edge and getting stuck. The king never raises his shield completely, he relies on his speed, he doesn't want to lose his vision so as not to miss the moment in which he can underrun my defence, but till now he has not succeeded. I always manage to parry his advance in time.

His breath comes in gasps - and my chest aches. But again I attack, sliding off the glittering metal of his helmet, then his sword stops the further path of my blade. Like me, he will fight until one of us fails in the care of his sons. Again he backs away from me, no longer leaping, but still raising his chin defiantly, exposing his unprotected throat above the low held shield.

So I wait, let him approach again, take his blow with my sword, but this time I don't swing out with my weapon as he retreats into the protection of his shield, but let myself fall forwards with all my weight into the thrust.

And the tip of my sword leaves an ugly red mark across his neck.

Too late he pulls up the shield, then suddenly realizes that his blood is gushing from the large wound on his neck, staining the white coat red.

He slumps down, raises his sword once more to strike at me. But on his knees he can no longer reach me, a leisurely step backwards brings me to safety.

*

The young king's Devoted realize that their lord has been hit, they rush towards me, I take another step back, clawing my toes into the warm mud, to not lose my balance from exhaustion. If I show weakness now, they will pounce on me like hyenas.

"You may bring his body back to your city," I call out to them, startled by the hoarseness of my voice. The young king is dead, so the battle is decided, and Tetraos is at the mercy of the Letrani troops.

Fleetingly, I cleanse my sword and let it disappear into its sheath. My hands tremble, too surreal is the sudden end of this life for the fight. I long for Firat, for her soothing voice, her soft body, which embracing reminds me of the life a man can give, even if he took the lives of others before.

My work is done, I beckon my bodyguards to follow me to the pavilion of the Letrani vizier. It is not the warrior's task to conduct negotiations.

* * *

Copyright of my cover above:

The knife handle (Kozuka) on the cover: Photo of the handle of a knife from the sword accessories (9.7 cm x 1.4 cm, thickness 0.6 cm), made of a copper-silver alloy (shibuichi), individual elements of the depiction are emphasised with gold and silver. The obverse depicts a bearded man holding a bowl in his raised right hand, from which a shadowy dragon rises, by the Japanese artist Hamano Yasuyuki (18th century), signature on the reverse of the handle: Otsuryuken Yasuyuki, a cropped and edited version was used.
Provenance/rights: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, gift from Herman A. E. and Paul C. Jaehne, 1943, in their possession from 1915 to 1943, accession number: 43.120.429, licenced under Public Domain (creativecommons.org/publicdoma… ),
I used the image images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages… , the object cropped and rotated with GIMP, 2023,
www.metmuseum.org/art/collecti… .

The cover itself I made 2023 with GIMP and MS Paint, for Latin letters I used MS Segoe Print (© 2008 The Monotype Corporation. All Rights Reserved) (learn.microsoft.com/en-us/typo… ), since the font was bought together with my Windows 10 Pro-Licence in 2016, MS allows using them free, even on the internet, even for commercial uses (learn.microsoft.com/en-us/typo… ).
For the Sogdian letters, which impersonate the letters of my fantasy-language 'Taribit', saying 'Murhan' on the cover, I used 'Noto Sans Sogdian' (Copyright 2012 Google Inc. All Rights Reserved) (fonts.google.com/noto/specimen… ), the use of this Google font is regulated by the SIL Open Font Licence Version 1.1 from 2007 (openfontlicense.org/ ), this means, among other things, that I am permitted to use my graphics created with Sogdian characters freely, including on the Internet.

The original German version of this story I wrote in 2008, this English version of the story I made in 2024 with help of Google Translator and 'Language Tool'.

* * *

There does in fact exists fanart to this story, back from 2009, see: and the linearts: by Muenchgesang