“Spread out and call for help when you see any enemies!” Uthimma sliced a bush with her war hammer. “They’re running for now, but that doesn’t mean we can just sit around and wait for them to come back! We need to chase them and destroy them!”
Geruke was glad that she committed to the act, but was also trusting enough in Lyrassa to command the guards to spread out. Or maybe she wanted him to kill the other guards, including Ranoll and Harrathock so she could take all the loot for herself?
Fine, I’ll take her up on the offer.
One guard crept past his tree and beyond. Geruke leapt between branches to follow him, waiting for all the other guards to spread out enough until he couldn’t see them. Eventually, they did, vanishing in the thickets, behind bark, and within bushes.
Geruke leapt above the guard and landed on a branch. It was too thin, so it cracked and creaked and the canopy rustled. Leaves fell, and the guard glanced up.
Geruke dashed down at the soldier. The moonlight gleamed on his short sword, and it appeared like a blurring rod of light as he fell and thrust it at the guard’s neck. Before he could yell, he crashed on the grass with a thud. Geruke’s sword sunk through flesh and into dirt.
The wrinkles of the soldier's bloody and dying face stretched with shock. Tears ran down it. He could have had parents, probably a lover, a group of friends, and maybe some kids. They’d mourn his death. They wouldn’t know and would never care about how much money Geruke would get from killing him and his buddies.
He didn’t care. What they wanted didn’t matter to him, but despite that conscious assertion, his arms shuddered and his eyes stung as he stared into the man’s face. He made himself stare. Inhaling and exhaling, he had to get used to the guilt and get used to burying i-
The crunching of grass and the cracking of twigs greeted his left ear. Geruke yanked his sword from the man’s neck, splattering blood over his trousers, his blade, the grass, and the tree he leapt off of. He snatched his gambeson, dragged him behind a bush, and crouched. Peering through the bush’s leaves, a guard approached him. She probably heard the thud as his victim hit the ground.
Her footsteps got louder and faster as she got closer and closer. He squeezed the hilt of his sword, waiting for her to get distracted by something or to turn around and point her back at him.
Silence devoured the forest. She stopped moving. She pointed the tip of her blade at the bush. Could she see him? She couldn’t, or else she would’ve called for help. What made her stop? Geruke glanced up at the nearby tree; blood from his victim smeared across it. She must’ve seen it. It was only a matter of time before she checked behind the bu-
Geruke burst through the bush and swung his blade at her neck. The hiss of metal scraping against metal filled the forest. She parried and yelled.
Shit!
He thrust at her neck. Blood dribbled out of her mouth and onto his blade. Tears again. Why did that hurt to see more than the blood? Footsteps banged from his right, so he yanked out the sword and leapt behind the bush he initially hid behind.
As she fell on her back in a growing pool of blood, three guards ran over to her. They yelled, calling for help, and one of them fruitlessly pressed their shivering hands to her bleeding neck, eyes wide with shock.
Glancing up at a tree, Geruke thought he should hide in a canopy and wait for them to spread out again. But after the guards gave up on saving the woman, they all had their backs pointed at each other. Their eyes scattered all around them, the points of their blades wobbling and following the focus of their sight.
If Geruke moved away from the bush, they’d surely see him, but if he didn’t move, then the rest of the guards would arrive from a direction he wouldn’t be able to expect. They’d be able to see him from his current position.
The footsteps of multiple people came from his left and his right and behind him. He had to do something.
So he pulled out a rock from his pocket and threw it in a high arc at a tree opposite him. The guards spun at the sound of the rock’s tapping; their backs turned and pointed at Geruke.
He sliced through the bush and rushed at three shivering guard’s backs. His sword sliced through linen, long black hair, flesh, veins, muscle and gleaming bone as he swung at a guard’s nape. The woman’s head flipped in the air and showered the other two guard’s helmets with blood and pink flesh. They spun and yelled. Their angry and terrified faces tied knots in Geruke's stomach, but his blade couldn’t stop moving.
He thrust at one’s heart and the blade sunk through linen, skin, organs, and ribs. Blood soaked Geruke's gambeson. He yanked his sword out from the dying man, blood and torn skin splattering on the frightened face of the third.
Geruke ducked and the guard’s blade sliced shavings of canvas off of the top of his mask. He swung at his neck, but the guard pivoted and the blade edge scraped the tip of his nose, spitting blood drops into the air. Geruke twirled his sword and thrust the pommel at the man’s face. The blunt force smashed against his forehead, splattering blood and inspiring a groan. The guard staggered backwards and wobbled, appearing to be in a daze.
Dashing at him, Geruke rammed the tip of his blade into his neck. As he yanked it out, he ran for a bush, but just as his sword left the confines of flesh, four guards emerged from forest thickets and surrounded him. One of them leaned a warhammer on their shoulder; Uthimma.
He fought a lot when he was younger and was trained by the best of the best, but he hadn’t fought like this for a long time. A few years ago, he would’ve been at ease in such a situation, but at that moment his heart battered his sternum. His hands moistened the hilt of his sword, inspiring a fear that it’d slip out of his grasp.
Enhancing the fear and conjuring a cacophony of sorrow, the bloody ground and his bloody clothes and his bloody victims with their tear and terror smothered dead faces conjured a gut grinding guilt. He shook his head, inhaled and exhaled, dragging his mind out of its rumination.
He glared at Uthimma, eye contact unwavering. Underneath her helmet, she grinned as she twirled her war hammer between her hands. Geruke assumed she was happy that Lyrassa approached the strategy of getting rid of the guards, so she didn’t have to share any loot. This meant that Uthimma could defeat Geruke and torture Lyrassa’s location out of him.
Initially, they would’ve just hoped that they’d be able to reach the escape tunnel before Lyrassa left it. It was a gamble. But capturing Geruke would guarantee finding her, killing her and seizing the loot for themselves. She might’ve even hoped that Geruke could kill Ranoll and Harrathock or any other guards that they either told or might’ve found out about the scheme, which meant that she herself would get all the money.
She underestimated him and Lyrassa, but he started to understand why as he continued to stare at her face behind her helmet. He recognized her. He swore he saw her many years ago, but he couldn’t put his finger on where.
“Gather the rest of the guards and bring them here,” the guard who seemed to fit Ranoll’s description said to who appeared to look like Harrathock. Ranoll stared at the many corpses, frightened. “I think we’ll need them. “
Harrathock nodded and ran towards the manor.
“Don’t worry,” Uthimma said, holding up a hand. Harrathock froze. She pulled off her helmet to reveal short black hair. “I can kill him with ease. “
“Is that right?” Geruke muttered.
“It is. If you don’t want to die, just lead me to where the rest of your bandit buddies are whilst the rest of my soldiers can patch up the wounded.”
“Or you could join me and turn on the rest of them.”
The rest of the soldiers turned to Uthimma and quizzically cocked their heads.
Twitching, sweat dripped down her temple. She then filled the forest with a laugh. “Look at my face,” she slammed her war hammer onto the ground and leaned on it, smirking at him. He stared at her face and he definitely recognized her. The only thing that threw him off were the many scars that covered her face. “Look at my scars. Wanna know where I got them from?”
“Not really something I thought to ask, but go on.”
“I got them whilst fighting side by side with the Legendary Lukagon and Acemma Righcas on the front lines of a battlefield. Have you heard of them?” Uthimma’s smirk widened as she gazed around at her fellow soldiers, watching their trembling vanish and their frowns turn to smiles.
“Quite a lot,” Geruke grinned. She appeared to think that telling him about Accemma and Lukagon would scare him, and reminding her fellow soldiers of them would increase their confidence. Oh, how wrong she was.
“So you’ll know then that they were the Legendary Warrior couple, known throughout the Galladrian Kingdom as war heroes.” Her smirk vanished, and she frowned after seeing his body still and his grin grow. “I watched them fight and kill hundreds of soldiers who surrounded them on their own and said to have killed sorcerers from Tennivoor with no magic of their own. They’re the strongest warriors Galladria have ever known.”
“So what?”
“I fought side by side with them on the battlefield!” She snatched her war hammer off of the ground, twirled it between her fingers and pointed it at him with a scowl. “I learned from them more than most could ever get the opportunity to! And not just that, but they praised my skill! They said they were glad that I had their back! You should be on your knees and begging for mercy! We don’t have to fight! We could end this conflict peacefully if you just tell us where your friends are! Do you have a death wish!?”
“I don’t,” Geruke sheathed his short sword and grabbed the hilt of his claymore on his back. It hissed as he drew it. The golden pommel was shaped with the head of a snarling draxorus, the grip had swirling ridges in the scaly shape of that monster’s tail, and the cross-guard curved and tapered like their claws. “But you might have if you continue to fight me despite recognizing this blade.”
“What!?” Uthimma shuddered and her eyes snapped wide. “How do you have that sword!? Where did you find it!? Were you the one that killed the Righcas family!?”
“No!” Geruke roared with a skin wrinkling scowl, but then bit his tongue and paused, shocked at his own anger. It would have struck a lot of fear in their hearts if he pretended he did, but he was rightfully guilty of that event. He couldn’t even pretend to claim responsibility of it. So he took a different approach. He took off his canvas mask and stared deep into Uthimma’s eyes. Seeing his face wouldn’t be an issue at this point; the dead can’t snitch. “Recognize me, Uthy?”
“It can’t be!” Her war hammer fell to the ground in her shock. The other guards sweat at seeing their leader so terrified. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
Taking advantage of their freezing fright, Geruke flung himself at a guard, claymore flashing in the moonlight. His blade hissed past a soldier’s flimsy parry, quivering in the presence of a warrior of the Righcas family who should’ve been dead. Did they think he was a ghost? He snorted at the thought of them thinking he was immortal.
The guard’s fidgeting ceased as the blade point vanished in flesh. Staring into the dying man’s sorrow smothered face, all humour and pride in his power and ability to frighten others disappeared, which fueled a flickering fury. Why couldn’t he be more like Friedroth and take pleasure in the activity? Inhaling and exhaling, he tried to force his frown to rise into a smile. He failed. His anger at himself grew into a blazing inferno.
Regardless, Geruke whipped the sword out of the man’s throat, flicking blood onto the grass. Despite his lack of humour, pride in his violence, and thirst for blood, he ran at the rest of his enemies and continued the hunt.
Harrathock ignored his commander’s earlier order and ran for the manor. Uthimma glared at him and opened her mouth as if to tell him to stay, but her mouth quivered to then close.
Three left.
Uthimma threw her helmet back on. They crept towards him, their shoulders touching. Geruke glided across the grass and his sword slammed against their wall of blades. He thrust, swung and chopped from all angles, but plunging his sword past the parries of three warriors at the same time proved troubling. Despite the size of Uthimma’s war hammer, she swung, flipped, and twirled the weapon as if it was a feather.
He could do nothing more than slice shallow cuts into their gambesons or clang his blade against their pauldrons, gorgets, helmets, or Uthimma’s plate armour that covered her entire body. She was a problem.
Realizing their advantage, they grew confident. They didn’t just defend and parry; they countered and swung killing blows. He went on the defensive. Jogging backwards, he bashed away the guard’s swings, thrusts and chops with ease, but Uthimma’s slamming of her war hammer against his claymore wobbled his blade and sent a shudder through his arms and body. He needed to end the fight quickly, or else Uthimma could destroy his sword; his parent’s sword.
Ranoll sliced Geruke’s cheek and blood burst into the air. The other guard grinned and leapt at Geruke, slashing his sword at his torso. He grew cocky. Geruke slapped the sword away with his blade, pivoted to the side, and spun. The sword’s ricasso tore through flesh and bone as the guard’s head spun in the air, hit Ranoll on the head, and sprayed blood on his face, making him stagger and retch.
Two left.
Ranoll paused and gulped, but then grimaced and roared along with Uthimma as they charged at him. Despite the killing of a guard, he didn’t get the chance to go back on the offensive. Pressuring him backwards, they rammed their weapons against him and he parried with shuddering arms.
Eventually, he tripped over tree roots and his back slammed against the bark. They leapt at him. Ranoll swung first. Geruke ducked. The sword slammed into the tree behind him. Geruke thrust at Ranoll. Normally, Ranoll would pull his sword back and parry, but he swung at a tree so his sword stayed there, stuck in bark. Geruke sunk his blade into the man’s torso, his cross-guard pushing up against his abdomen.
One left.
Yanking his claymore out of Ranoll, he dashed to the side and away from Uthimma’s hammer swing. The blunt force of it didn’t stab into the bark, it smashed it. Wood splattered away from the impact like an explosion and the crunching sound of it boomed in his ears.
She wistfully glanced down at Ranoll. Her eyes flicked back up and snapped wide, glaring at Geruke.
She screeched as she leapt at him, hammer slamming down at his head. Geruke grinned. Rage consumed her. He won. It was simple to pivot to the side of the predictable strike and thrust his blade at the gap between her breastplate and left pauldr-
Bushes rustled, and twigs cracked. A dagger spun and slammed against his sword, swerving the blade point so it hit and bounced off her pauldron. She slammed his blade away and dashed backwards.
Harrathock and four other guards surrounded him. Geruke against six. Sweat dripped down his temple. As Uthimma grinned, so did the others. When would they learn to not underestimate him?
Geruke’s hand shot to his belt, yanked a dagger off it, and threw it at a guard. It plunged through air, leaves and scraped across the inner rim of a helmet. Blood burst from the woman’s face as the dagger sunk into an eye socket. The guard dropped to the floor.
Five left.
The soldiers started and shivered at the sight, especially when he snatched another dagger from his belt and threw it at Harrathock.
He ducked, and the dagger bounced off the top of his helmet. Geruke clicked his tongue, hoping that the trick would at least work a second time to then fail a third. Uthimma yelled at the guards. They all ran to her and approached Geruke, shoulders touching. Geruke ran at them and slammed against their wall of blades.
They went on the offensive, pressuring him back. He jogged, dashed, ducked and rolled backwards, parrying their rolling and pulsing wave of blades.
Stepping back, his foot caught on something. It wasn’t grass. Geruke glanced behind himself and it was the guard he just killed. Stepping over her, he tripped and staggered.
A guard yelled and leapt at him, the sword plunging at his hea-
Geruke slammed the flat of the guard’s sword with his pommel and thrust the blade at his throat. The point peeked out the other side.
Four left.
He rolled backwards and continued to parry. As he scrambled to his feet, Uthimma pirouetted her war hammer around his claymore. She caught his crossguard with her hammer’s hook. She pulled and his sword flew out of Geruke’s grasp and spun behind the guards. His empty hands clawed the air with frustration.
Uthimma and the other soldiers showered his body with shallow cuts and punctures as he scrambled away from them without a weapon to parry. His body trembled as he ducked and dashed under and beside their attacks, but he grinned as he saw their smirks.
A guard rushed at him, thrusting his blade at his neck. Geruke strangled the hilt of his short sword and as he filled the forest with the hiss of it scraping out of its scabbard, he severed the man’s head to let it and torn flesh spin in their air and silhouette against the white and shining full moon. His headless body tumbled to the grass and his blood-spitting skull thudded on the dirt next to it.
Three left.
Their wave of blades was harder to push against with his short sword. As the pressure heightened, his back hit bark again. The three of them spread out and cornered Geruke against the tree. He couldn’t escape except by cutting one down.
The more Geruke parried Uthimma’s war hammer, the more shards of iron spit from growing cracks along the edge of the blade. He needed to end the fight quickly.
Harrathock swung at Geruke, and he ducked. The blade paused and hovered in front of the bark. He seemed to have more presence of mind than Ranoll. Uthimma didn’t need to. Shards of bark shot at Geruke’s nape as he dodged her hammer.
A guard winced as bark splashed his eyes. He closed them. Geruke rushed at him and his blade shot past the guard’s flailing sword and crunched into a closed eye to splatter blood out the other side.
Two left.
Yanking it out, he dashed under a slash from Harrathock, tripped over tree roots, and fell against and bark again. Devouring his peripheral vision, Uthimma’s war hammer rushed at him. Geruke slammed his sword against it and ducked. The blade bent and shattered under the force of the hammer, swiping over him and leaving shards of iron to sprinkle on Geruke’s mask.
His knees trembled. They felt weak. He ducked, dodged, and jumped over their attacks, unable to parry with empty hands. It was just a matter of time before they killed him.
Geruke pivoted around the swing of Harrathock’s sword, a cut sliced across his cheek. Harrathock twirled his sword and slammed Geruke’s cheek with the pommel. Half of his face throbbed and blood splashed out of his mouth. He staggered and crouched.
Uthimma horizontally sliced her hammer at him and her weapon brushed the soles of his boots as he jumped. As he fell, Harrathock thrust his sword at Geruke’s heart. He dropped his broken sword. His hand shot to his belt. He grabbed a dagger and parried Harrathock’s blade mid-air, swerving it to the side of his torso, letting it splatter nothing more than cloth and a few drops of blood. Geruke landed, rushed at Harrathock, and shoved his dagger into his neck. Blood burst out of his mouth and splashed Geruke’s face.
One left.
Uthimma swung at him just as he yanked his dagger out of Harrathock’s neck. He ducked. Twirling her hammer, she thrust the pommel at his face. Geruke pivoted, letting it brush past his billowing black tunic. Uthimma spun and her leg rose. Her metal boot slammed into his neck, flicked up his chin, and lifted his feet into the air.
He grabbed his throbbing throat, pain burning up his neck to explode in his blood spitting mouth. Bursting with pain, he crashed, tumbled and rolled across the ground. Grass scratched his face and dirt smeared across it, mixing with the blood that dribbled out of his mouth.
His vision blurred. Slamming his palms on the ground, he pushed up, but grass slapped his shoulder. The world wobbled, whirled and weltered. Uthimma’s metal steps pounded towards him. They stopped. A deafening silence devoured the forest. He scrambled onto his back and a blurring and falling hammer engulfed his vision.
Geruke rolled. The boom of her hammer crashing into the ground pummelled his ears. Grass and dirt splashed away from the explosion and at his face, leaving behind a small crater. He could vividly imagine his skull cracked like an egg in that crater, red yoke oozing across the crater’s ridges.
Her hammer rose, and she dashed at his laying body. His eyes snapped wide. He jumped to his feet just as her hammer swung up in the air to then crash down towards him. Geruke swerved his head to the side. Iron scraped his shoulder, a stinging and throbbing and burning sensation smothering it. The pain grew into a roaring inferno as that arm rose and thrust a dagger at her helmeted head.
Blood stampeded across her gorget. He yanked his arm out of her helmet, rubbing his shoulder. Her corpse fell to the ground in a pool of blood.
His eyes scattered across the grass, consuming the sight of the cadavers. Blood soaked grass. Bone gleamed out from behind the torn flesh of necks. Not a single corpse didn’t have tears that fell across cheeks and merged with blood. He wished it rained so he could at least trick himself into thinking they died quickly.
Falling to his knees, he grabbed his throat, and he retched. Made-up images of their mourning friends, and shattered wives and husbands, and depression ravaged parents, and eternally broken and scarred and traumatized innocent children, rampaged through his mind.
He inhaled and exhaled, repressing his anguish to the deepest recesses of his mind. He was a puppet; the strings held by a wicked world. Rising to his feet, he limped to his parent’s claymore and placed it back in its scabbard.
Barsanna’s manor had twenty-one guards. He killed all of them. Even if Uthimma, Ranoll or Harrathock told their buddies about Lyrassa, it wouldn’t matter. The dead aren’t dangerous.
Geruke limped through the forest. He was glad that the owls continued to hoot and foxes startled him by rustling through bushes. It allowed him to escape from the pain of rumination.
He entered a clearing, and the sight of a lake greeted him. The pale blue lustre of the moon sparkled on the still water. The moonlight silhouetted two bursting sacks that jingled at the slightest of movements, and Lyrassa who stood staring at a twinkling diamond necklace that laid against her collarbones.
As soon as her eyes rose to his, a skin wrinkling smile spread across her face. “Are they all dead?”
“I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.”
She squealed, ran at him and leapt at him, squeezing his body with a hug. Despite the sorrow that pressed on his heart, he couldn’t help but gaze with a grin at the overflowing sack that laid by the lake and her glimmering smile; not a mischievous smile or a smug smile, but a smile of genuine happiness. He hugged her back.
Fluttering his heart, her soft breathing tickled his neck and the sweet aroma of perfume wafted into his face from her glistening skin. Where did she get perfume from? He chuckled at the thought of Lyrassa investing some extra time into sneaking into Barsanna’s bedroom to steal some perfume from her drawers. His hug tightened.
Staring at her ecstatic face that pressed against his chest, the twinkling of the diamond necklace wrapped around her neck sucked in his attention. How much could she sell it for?
How much could he sell it for?
He glanced back up at the two bursting sacks of rubound coins. How much money was in each sack?
How much was in both?
How much of his debts could he pay off with one?
How much could he pay off with both?
His hand fell to the hilt of a dagger.
