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Before the Beginning Part 3/The War Captain’s Afternoon

Ground-mist poured over the long, silvery grasses like new milk.  The night had been weird as usual in the North, the sky ablaze with stars of every color and crowned by an arrogant pair of  moons that seemed to dump light randomly just to reveal the enemies of the crazy Tribesmen!  Now it was daytime and not much damn better.

The troop of Southerners huddled into this concealing fog, without question enemies of the Northern barbarians, were hopefully screened from sight by the mist that had risen with the dawn. But they were cold and wretchedly damp from their sleepless night.  And except for their commander, they didn’t hesitate to complain about it.

It was not yet the end of summer, but even though the red sun now shimmered brightly in the sky it seemed to heat nothing.  Heathen, hellish place!  In southern lands, the deserts would still be cozy, almost baking in fact.  Of course the lord needed this conquest for some reason beyond their humble understanding, but why couldn’t it be comfortable at least?  Such were the complaints of the Southern forces, often at a volume that made their commander wince.

Skarthk, a bitter-looking man with darker eyes than his blond coloring warranted, continued to study the clearing ahead of him suspiciously.  He ignored the whining of the pack of mewling infants he was cursed with.  He didn’t bother to share his knowledge that what their Lord desired was not the Northern lands per se.  The One God coveted only the small Western area of mountains and lakes just beyond the Tribal realms, the so-called elven country where the magic metal fell.  But the Tribal grasslands cupped the mountains like a half-closed fist, and to take the metal they must conquer the inhabitants of the land blocking their path to it.

Even if he shared such information, these fools would forget it on the instant; ideas beyond filling their bellies and killing for their god were just too sophisticated for them to grasp.

He knew by now that these copies of men couldn’t restrain their immediate emotions for the sake of discipline.  They were children in all but bodies.  And they were so fucking clumsy, even their fighters’ physiques weren’t good for much!  The One God didn’t seem to expect perfection, though, as long as the creatures he duplicated from real warriors worshipped him blindly.

Hell, the One God didn’t even care if they were adequate, as long as there were plenty of them!  And that at least the Great Lord had accomplished.  Even though the band of ruffians that ambushed them a few miles down the road had slaughtered dozens, still Skarthk commanded a small nation of idiots.  He supposed that was some consolation, though damn if it made him feel very cheerful.

He, however, did no complaining.  He was a true Southerner, descended from the joining of a man and woman, not copied dozens of times until his personality was rubbed away and his brain only worked randomly if at all.  He had memories unlike these cattle, though mostly bad ones.  He knew the cost of angering the One God as these slavish fools under him never could.

He did not think his wife’s name, or the names of his children.  To think of the dead was no use, really.  But he remembered them, in silent respect and loneliness.

Then like a disciplined and practical human being, he brought his mind back to the present and what he needed to accomplish.  Namely, to decide if this clearing, sheltered a bit by a growth of trees and carpeted with an early fall of gold and crimson leaves, was safe enough to rest his exhausted troop for a few hours.  His mind replayed the battle as he scanned the area warily.

The Northern commander had attacked from ambush with a crisp efficiency that impressed Skarthk.  Then the man, a huge bearded fellow with sharp, fearless eyes, obviously realized he was too badly outnumbered.  He lost some warriors merely through the Southern mob piling on top of the smaller force and striking around blindly.  Gods above, had he cussed about it---obviously grieved as well as infuriated at the loss.  Oh, many Southern troops fell in the struggle, but they could afford to lose a hundred better than the small attacking troop could stand to lose three men.

Once sure of this, the Northerner barked an order in that strange, musical tongue Skarthk only party understood.  He’d been instantly obeyed, too!  All those large warriors had retreated more swiftly than seemed possible, but tossing jeers and insults that caused the Southern men to see red and try to follow.

It had done Skarthk no good to bawl out commands and curses, though out of habit he’d done so anyway. His men became an angered mob, running hither and yon, wearing themselves out trying to catch the elusive, mocking enemies who split up in all directions to drive the invaders crazy.

A mess of about forty men had followed a couple of female warriors; the girls had dumped their headgear and shook out their hair with grins that proved they knew about the Southern views on woman fighting, or indeed doing anything but having children and pleasing their men.  “Hey, you eunuchs, you dickless wonders!” the older of the two had shouted. She was dark-haired and full-figured, attractive in a way but brassy beyond belief or tolerance.  “You fight like girls---only not as good!”

Her companion, a pretty blonde bitch of some eighteen summers---barely old enough to sit a horse let alone wield a short sword---burst out laughing. Then the teenaged girl yelled something truly obscene in the Southern tongue of all things!  Both women then clapped heels to their steeds and promptly led dozens of infuriated idiots from his dwindling horde directly into a small pool just over the rise.

He cursed his way to the top of the hill only in time to watch the damn fools go down screaming. Attacked by something in the water that peeled the flesh from their bones even as he glared down, truly disgusted at their stupidity.  The two women clung to each other a safe distance away from any retaliation, laughing heartily as the pool bubbled and turned crimson and finally silent.

The older one looked up at him and saluted mockingly.  "Good day, Southern bastard!" she called out cheerfully.  "Your men smell much better after their little bath; feel free to join them!"  Cackling like witches, the two spun their horses and galloped away before he could even think to order someone to shoot them from their saddles.  Not that the bumbling imbeciles remaining to him could shoot straight anyway!  And to be honest, he admired the females too much to strike back.  Tits or not, they were better soldiers than the crap he was burdened with!

It was his own weariness that made his mind up finally; that, and the audible noises of birds twittering in the trees of the small sheltered area. If the wildlife was unhushed, things were probably safe in the area for now. To cap his decision, a small shower of rain began to fall, although the sun continued to blaze a confident crimson above their heads.  The wetting was light, but still the snivelling of his army redoubled.

“To the hells with it!” the commander muttered.  He jerked his hand in a signal to move forward, and his men cheered loudly (the idiots!) and poured into the clearing, chattering and laughing with relief.

He hung back, annoyed at their lack of stealth, and curiously reluctant to even share a camping place with such a bunch of lamebrains.  They milled around a bit, then dropped their weapons to the ground and began to actually unbuckle their armor!  As if they thought they had returned to the city and safety, rather than just hiding in some shrubbery for a rest!

“Gods damn you, are you totally brainless?  Don’t relax that much!  Pick up your weapons!” he roared, taking a step forward in a fury.

“Good advice,” the ground beneath his feet remarked.  An instant later the golden-eyed Northern leader surged out of the pile of loose leaves he’d been lying concealed under, grabbed his enemy’s throat beneath one brawny arm, and threw Skarthk heavily on his ass in the mud.

It wasn’t really that simple; the Northerner twisted somehow as he threw the smaller man, an unknown but extremely effective wrestling move designed to injure as much as possible.

There was a single, bright wave of pain as something snapped. He thought it was his collarbone, but it must have been his neck or spine because he lay there without further agony, thank the gods, but unable to move.  Watching as the ground came alive with raffish looking brawlers, far more of them than had first attacked.  They came out of the pits they’d dug in the innocent-seeming clearing; they dropped from trees above the spinning, wailing Southern warriors.  Those trees had seemed too thin of trunk to hold anything larger than the fucking birds, who still chirped happily as the musclebound Northern fighters hammered his fool men to muddy, bloody pulp.

Copies had no defense against surprise, no flexibility outside of their enforced patterns.  Skarthk watched resignedly as his command bawled like cattle, half unarmored and too stupid to even try to pick up the weapons they’d discarded. Blood showered him, not in droplets but in sheets of heavy liquid.  He was blinded with it, choked on it ---

He could do nothing to help them, or himself.

And he felt---nothing.  Except relief that it was finally over and he could join his family in the afterlife he still, traitorously, believed in.

“Not bad scruffle.  Start bit off-center, though.  Cap’n kinda grim today.”

“Yup.  I like it better when the Bear comes roaring into battle with axe in one hand and bottle in the other, yelling out insults and singing about our enemies’ defects.  I laugh so hard I piss myself, but it’s better for morale, ya’know? But it ended up fun, that’s the important thing.”

“Fun, so!  My body look like night sky, all the diff’rent color bruises from those pigs trompin’ me while I hide under leaf and pray my shield will hold under their weight!  But yup—was worth it to see their leader’s face before he croak, and hear those vermin squealin’.  Cap’n he creative even in bad mood, I give him that.”

There was a thoughtful pause, as a skin bottle was passed between the two guards.  Then the older one spoke quietly to the handsome, one-handed fellow some twenty years his junior.

“Speargrim.  Why Do’nar so moody, eh?  Always, battle with him fun.  This one---I think, more like work.  Not complainin’, me.  Just askin’, since you and him so tight. I kinda think---we have so hard time, ‘cos usually he do stuff these Southboys not expect.  It throw them off when boss so cheerful---this time he all business, and they more expect that in fight.”

Speargrim snorted.  He went to scratch his nose, then remembered in time before he chopped it off with the double-edged dagger that was now his right hand.  He sighed deeply.  “Damn! It was good of Do’nar to make this thing for me and it’s wicked in battle.  But it’s so comfortable to wear half the time I reach for my own dick with it and nearly geld myself!”

His friend cackled, then proved his sympathy by passing the bottle back before it was totally emptied.  “Answer my question, you, and maybe I help with that problem.”  This remark came loaded with a flirting glance that caused Speargrim to smile in return.  Damn!  Crazy as crickets or not, these Black Moon boys were attractive!  And this one especially, squatting before the fire naked except for a loincloth and the elaborate curls of body paint, with his ropes of silver-touched dark hair and eyes of clearest amber.

Their group of warriors, mostly Shadow Riders but with a few out-Tribesmen like Narsil, had traveled some miles north-east of the slaughter to give over the necessary clean-up to the wolves and birds as was decent.  They had rifled the corpses first, of course, being prudent men no matter what Tribe they hailed from.  Southern fighters always carried nearly all their valuables with them for some reason.  The small wagon that ran with the army had been commandeered hours before this.  Since Southerners were useless at hunting, they always brought a cook’s hoard of flour, rice, and other grains with them into battle.  Jerked meat too, thank the gods---the other crap was useful to get through a hard winter, but not really what a warrior wanted to eat if there was a choice.

And even the lowest Southern man carried every coin he owned; it was like they didn’t trust a strongbox but must lug their gold about to keep it safe.  Ha, no wonder they were such awful warriors, weighted down and jangling with money!  The total loot in cash was staggering; they’d actually had to take along the stupid cart to tote it all and that slowed them down more than their captain liked.  He’d cussed a blue streak about all the coin, too.  By the gods, he wasn’t fool enough to leave a scrap of it behind of course! But it meant he’d need to travel and trade before the next moon, and he’d planned to spend the remaining summer sitting on his ass, crafting and drinking.  Why the hell couldn’t these bastards carry decent gear instead of fucking money?  Money was worthless until you spent it on something useful, damn it!  And that meant a trip to Sagev’al, the main Northern city near the ocean where the fairs were held.

And, it was also a bad time for Do’nar to be away from his Tribe for that long, because---

“It’s Nightwolf,” Speargrim admitted quietly.  “Do’nar hasn’t been himself since that one came to the Lands.  His sense of humor has dried up and blown away, seems like, trying to keep that fellow in line.”

“Ah, King of Legend.  Dark Rider, Outsider.  I am understanding.”  Quietly, the Black Moon shaman moved closer to the youngling he shared watch with, and slipped a casual arm around the young man’s shoulders.  Speargrim relaxed into the touch with a sigh.  “Will Do’nar challenge, think you?”

It was a harsh question put casually, and one Narsil was not wishing to ask this attractive boy at all before bedding him.  Still, his responsibilities came first.  He must do his work, gather information, then attend to pleasure if there was any chance left for it.  Such was the curse of all grown persons and gods! How he despised it sometimes!

Thankfully, the lad merely sighed a bit, and responded easily enough, while stretching in a way to make Narsil swallow hard.

“No,  He can’t really best the Wolf in battle, you see.  Do’nar is a fighter beyond belief, but---Nightwolf is the God’s Hammer, their Chosen however he treats us.  And also, Do’nar has no wish to be leader.  No.  He won’t Challenge.  He left early to go talk to Nightwolf one last time---“

“Talk!  To an animal.  No doubt it will listen.” A soft, scoffing voice as he stroked the boy’s bright hair and wished for a night unencumbered by duplicity.  But he must learn.  What was this Nightwolf?  And if he were a demon sent by the Southerns rather than the King of Legend---would the much admired War Captain face him down---or not?

If the much- admired War Captain had been able to hear this malarkey at the moment, he would have voted “NOT!” in a voice loud enough to shake the mountains.

Do’nar had rushed back to their home base partly to confront the Wolf, true.  The trouble in his mind had grown too large for him to put off an unpleasant task any longer.  But he hadn’t expected to run into the High King so abruptly.  And certainly not here where the dead were staked!

He’d come to this foul place to meditate actually, and ask the gathered spirits what they wished him to do.  Do’nar cultivated his reputation as a party animal and dumb, cheerful warrior with an almost holy zeal.  But truth was---sometimes to his annoyance---he was more complex than that.

Drink as he did, fight as he must, above all Do’nar was a deeply spiritual man.  Also, a thinker; to his disgust he could figure things out without even wanting to.  This weakened him, because he understood what motivated people, and felt empathy for their troubles and what might have steered them wrong.  Such empathy didn’t prevent him from swapping their heads off if the need arose, but he regretted it later and that was damned uncomfortable!

Now, he hoped he could reach the tortured soul that was Nightwolf, because the need for head-swapping was getting more urgent by the day.  And the worst part was, Do’nar knew he alone was incapable of taking the Wolf down.  Hell, he didn’t know if the whole Northern nation could do it without losses that would destroy them as a people.  This was not just a mean, powerful bastard in need of a good ass-kicking to straighten him out.  This man was God-touched AND he was supposed to be the Chosen warrior that would bind the Tribes together and lead them to victory against the oppressive religious fanatics rising in the South.  More diplomatic measures seemed called for, blast and damn it! at least at first.  But though Do’nar meant to have words with him eventually about the callous way he treated his people, the man’s presence at the Hill of Punishment rattled him.  It couldn’t mean anything good!

He stared at the looming darkness that was the Wolf, hiding his dismay and stepping forward, rather than back as he instinctively wanted to.  When Nightwolf stated that he was “looking for” Do’nar, the War Captain’s knees frankly began shaking.  He was no coward, but he knew what his chances were, against this one.

And how many grudges must Nightwolf bear him?  The War Captain was constantly getting in his way! The last time, Wolf had attacked Speargrim, and that was too much for Do’nar.  He had gone from protesting words to action, that time, and he still wasn’t sure why he had survived.

Despite the name his father had hopefully given him, Do’nar’s close friend was a cheerful, humorous, rather peace-loving fellow.  He could fight well when needed, even after his injury (though he never came near that murderous perfection his father had yearned for). But he preferred spending time with his lady and his friends rather than honing his battle skills.  He had a garden, for Thor’s sake!  He also, unfortunately, had a rather undisciplined tongue and a sense of humor that often got him in trouble.  Do’nar remembered now the time it had nearly got them both killed!

About a year ago, Speargrim and Do’nar had been part of a huge raiding party that included the Nightwolf.  Their leader, brooding and sullen, had ridden ahead of them scouting for enemies---prey, more like.  He was always eager to kill.  At that time, some of the outer Tribes had still resisted the idea of a new High King, and Do’nar seriously hoped none of those fools crossed Wolf’s path instead of Southerners.  He thought half of the Tribes who weren’t Riders had their heads on backwards, but that didn’t mean they deserved a brutal death!

Nightwolf had not been focused on his companions at all, and in any case they’d seen him ride off.  So when Speargrim booted his horse to Do’nar’s side and remarked cheerfully, “Damn! Our King is stark raving crazy, and getting worse every day!” Do’nar had shushed him out of respect for the title, but secretly agreed with him.

And then, a storm of bright darkness roared over them, and Nightwolf was there.  Holding Speargrim by the throat, and growling.

“Crazy?” he whispered in his thickly accented Tribal, deep voice making the words intense and frightening.  “I am not lucky enough to go crazy, you bastard!”  Below the fury, pain bloomed like poison in a festered wound.

His arm moved, fast as a whip. Do’nar moved an instant sooner without even thinking it over, smashing hard against the Warchief and breaking his hold on Speargrim more by luck than strength.  His friend, loose of tongue but not entirely an idiot, slammed heels into his mount and galloped off instantly, riding hard and not looking back.  Which in fact proved how frightening Nightwolf could be, for Speargrim wasn’t a coward at all!

The Warchief would have been after the lad anyway, and caught him too; the man had insanely fast reflexes and his warbeast was far swifter than a mere horse.  But the animal balked for some reason, giving Do’nar time to catch Nightwolf’s arm and drag him back with an effort that nearly popped his muscles out of his skin.

The warchief turned on him, enraged; he saw his own death in lashing blue eyes and accepted it in exchange for Speargrim’s safety.  And as he did, he heard himself speak calmly as the gods filled his mouth with words.  He didn’t understand a syllable of it.  It gave him the creeps, to have his tongue stolen in this way!

“If the lover you grieve for is worth so much pain, he will despise what you’ve become, won’t he?  Better for you if he never finds you, accursed one!”

Nightwolf’s deadly eyes widened and he turned white to his very lips; appalled, Do’nar realized that whatever insult he’d voiced must be in the language of the High King’s original world.  Damned gods, what were they thinking?!

The warchief stared at him, and actually flinched back.  Then recovered, and glared wordlessly.  He raised his sword and struck Do’nar a vicious blow.  But with the flat of the blade, not the edge.

Still, it was bad enough to crack his arm-bone and raise a welt almost worse than the broken limb for pain.  Do’nar yelled in shock as he flew off his horse with the force of the strike and crashed to the ground.  “Oh, Thor’s balls!” he remarked, struggling to a seated position as fast as possible.  He’d be damned if he’d meet Death on his back, like a stunned turtle spinning on its shell!

But to his utter astonishment, instead of closing in for a death-blow Nightwolf was halfway down the trail, spurring his snarling warbeast hard in the opposite direction that Speargrim had taken.

After Nightwolf had ridden away that time, the meaning of the foreign words he’d spoken had slammed into Do’nar’s brain belatedly.  It was no less than what Do’nar had thought on numerous occasions---worded more eloquently perhaps---but without a godly push he’d never be fool enough to say such a thing in any language!  He congratulated himself for coming away with no worse than a broken arm, to be honest.

Now, as he studied the man in front of him, Do’nar felt the same level of surprise as he had on the day he survived back-talking his King.  Nightwolf had changed, somehow.  It was hard to pin down, but something in his stance had relaxed.  Not a softening by any means, but---

Do’nar peered at his Warchief’s face, met his eyes.  And stifled a gasp, as something calm, cold and entirely rational looked back at him for the first time.

This was a man who faced him, not a lowering beast.  Perhaps not a kind man, nor a happy one.  But human.

He’s younger than me, Do’nar thought, confused and oddly touched at the notion.  By Thor, from his power and his deeds I was thinking him an older man with years of killing and darkness behind him.  Oh, he’s no innocent stripling; he’s lived, and through the Nine Hells if I’m any judge!

But he hasn’t let it take him.  Not yet; not completely.  He is a blade in the forge still, not a elder weapon cursed to destroy all who wield it.

There is something---someone---that will decide what path he takes.  And that One is no god, not as we think of it anyway.

His Chosen will be here soon, sure as trees drop leaf in the autumn,  Gods grant this be a good thing and not cause even more upset!  Because I’m damned if I think this man will produce a comfortable type of lover!

Do’nar took a deep breath, and spoke his heart.

“Every man suffers differently.  Though by Thor, yours is one of the worst ways I’ve seen!  But I’m pleased, if something has happened that makes your coming to our land less hateful to you.”  He shook himself, then, and a glint of humor touched his face as he looked at his frowning, thoughtful Warchief.

“In any case---I’ll be glad to deal with the relatives of the dead for you.  But right now there’s a more pressing concern---I stink!  And you’re less than fragrant yourself, Lord King, to be blunt about it.  Perhaps we can take a soak together and hash these problems out in the baths?  If I stand in this cloud that’s around us a second longer I’d keel over, dammit!”

The dreaded Nightwolf studied his Captain expressionlessly for a moment.  Then, slowly, his head tilted and a faint, reluctant smile touched his mouth.  “This, too, is something that must be changed,” he mused, almost to himself.  “Filth is less than appealing.”  He lifted his fingers, and touched his stiffened braids as if surprised to find the dried blood and dirt of many weeks’ neglect there.

“Yes,” he agreed decisively.  “We will discuss---things---in the baths.”  He turned as if to stalk in that direction, then hesitated and eyed Do’nar.  Waiting for him to follow, or possibly to lead---though Nightwolf went through maniacal bouts of cleanliness to balance his depressions, at this point he might really have forgotten the location of the arena.  He had been sunk in this latest dark mood of his for a very long time, now.

How many things does he have in mind, to talk about? Do’nar thought resignedly.  And why do I have the feeling that huge changes are coming and I’ll have a storm of work suddenly before me, to instruct this man on how to rule the North properly?

The Captain of the Shadow Riders tried to put a disgusted scowl on his face, and failed miserably.  In fact, only respect for the man he accompanied (and his own hide’s safety, of course!) kept him from grinning like one of the loony Black Moon boys.

The King of Legend, perhaps,  had truly arrived at last.  Thank the gods, if it was so! for Do’nar wouldn’t be obliged take over the leadership of the Riders after all.  With any luck, in fact, he’d be sitting on his ass as he’d planned by winter at the latest.  Drinking, and crafting weapons, and enjoying life as a grown man should after so many stressful years!

Night was just a pause before daybreak, after all was said and done.  And for the North, Do’nar hoped, the sun was about to rise at last.