chapter one
My name is Bol Dashir, and I will not survive this tale. Look, it's not like we both don't know this is a story. Why else would I be talking to you? You think it's normal, me wandering through the woods and thinking out loud? No, this is a story, and I won't be around for any happy endings.
I've always been this way. It's like my mother always said, bless her. You (meaning me) don't know how good you've got it. Always focused on the negative. You pray for the rain when the sun is shining. Always said how you couldn't wait to grow up and be important (hey, Mom, look, I'm a soldier!), and now all you do is complain about how you wish you were a kid again. Lot's of motherly stuff like that. Still, like they say, all whys lead to a mother. She knows the reason. Knew the reason.
See, I've just always had this certainty, and believe you me, I've tried to shake it, that I won't live past thirty years old. I've argued, pleaded, reasoned, drank, and nothing can stop this feeling from squeezing my future dry. I have nothing to look forward to. I'm living on borrowed time. I turned thirty just two months ago.
"They say she's got a right burner down south." That's Fonli. Right in my ear. He's the right kind of man. The kind of man that doesn't see his death leering at him from behind every tree, under every snapped twig. Got it all figured that The Slut just needs to meet the right kind of man, so he's feeling pretty good about the mission.
Oh yeah, right. This is a story. "The Slut" is the Lady Lida Vianna, Ministress of Something or Other, Shining Representative of the Free and Just Peoples of Siguard. Defender of the planet's virtue, or words to that effect, in the face of dire Godian Expansionism. Right. Godii, that's my country. I'm dire, in spite of Fonli, and we're currently expanding, oh, about three hundred or so miles into Siguardian territory. She'd really hate me.
Fonli was trying not to sound repetitve, but there are only so many different ways you can say you'd like to bed your target during a thirty two day crawl through enemy territory, you know? Still looking on the bright side, he just has to keep on. "It's not right, woman like that carryin' on like that. I tell you, she just needs a good man, ride her 'round the yard a few times. Fatten her up a little. I sure would like just a few minutes alone with her. Get something straight between us." He pauses, and makes sure to match his stride to mine, so he can get my reaction. I try offering up my usual chuckle (hey, I try to oblige), but instead he gets The Grunt.
"She's got a big ass."
Fonli looks genuinely disappointed. "Aw, I don't -"
"Sure you do. You and me and most of the rest of the guys, here and back home. That fancy hair, those sleeveless things she sports, gettin' women all up in arms back home, worried their men are going to find some free-spirited heathen Sigardian girl and forget all about family and security and the like. She's a looker, make no mistake, but she's got a big ass. You forget, I've actually seen her, last Plant."
Or was it the Plant before last? You know, that's the worst part of the whole stained thing. Not only am I racing headlong into certain death with every step, I can't remember anything right. I have a terrible memory. The color of my mom's eyes? Couldn't tell you. The capital of -
"What do you think, Stenser?" Of course, Fonli's shouting, 'cause Stenser is a stone to the east. Fonli's voice seems suddenly shrill in the crisp morning air. He's a bit of a drudge, meaning anyone within three stones could've heard him. Just in case they didn't, he keeps on. "Dash says she's got a BIG ASS! Which is funny comin' from Dash! You ever see his wife? Hurm and gurm, fellow, there's a black pot for you!"
Stenser's a good man, so he knows to keep quiet. Fent on the other hand...
"I heard ol' Dash just married her for the money. Know who her old man is? There's a reason that ass is fat!"
"Hell yeah!" chirruped Fonli. "Old Monteva, mastersmith extraordinary, provider of arms for the Third and Fourth Ballians, and the maker of this very sword I'm carryin' right here!" He draws it, even though nobody but me can see him, and swings it carelessly around his head a few times until he manages to lodge it in a branch overhead. "I'm just sayin'," he pauses and tries to remove his blade. Lots of noise, no results. "- that ol' Dash here's wife's ass is twice the size of The Slut's!" Now there's guffaws not just from Fent but from somebody over on my side, some ways off to the west, probably Detro. This is great. I can just see Sigardians grinning to each other as they approach. I'm going to die because Fonli and Fent can't decide who's got a bigger ass, my wife or the Lady Vianna.
Struggling with his sword and the tree, Fonli's falling behind. Me, I'm not going to wait for him. So what if my wife's ass is fat? Or maybe I should wait. No sense trying to avoid the ambush. I'm slated for death either way I go. I stop and turn around.
But Fonli got a laugh and that's wood to a fire. Louder still, he fairly bellows, "Not that she's not a sweet woman, Dashir! Just tell her to stop posting me! There's only room for one big butt in my life, and The Slut's got it!" So I turn back around. No sense dying next to a drudge who's ripping your wife. Sure, I get along with most folks, but Fonli here isn't what I'd call extended mission company, if you know what I mean. He's just not built to endear.
The trees are beginning to thin ahead. We can't be far from the road now. If I were an ambush, where would I be lurking?
"I hear she's a virgin!" Yeah, that's Detro all right. Six days without an enemy sighting should make a fighting man more wary, but then there's folk like Fonli and Detro.
Fonli doesn't answer, so Fent fills in. "Who, Dashir's wife? Must be that positive outlook of his!" To my right, Detro snickers in the distance. If I were an ambush, I'd be lurking one decapitating stroke to the right of Detro. I'm sorry, but that man's a snake. You'll see.
You won't even have to wait long. "Well that bottom-heavy virgin surely can dance, let me tell you!" There he goes, always there on the periphery of any discussion, provided its unpleasant enough, ready to swoop in for an easy shot. Me, I suppose I'm an easy shot. "Every time we're back in town, she posts me, 'Pleeeaasssee let me come and dance for you again, Pel! Like I did all that week last Plant while Sulky Dash was off throating it in dirty old Siguard!" Detro's exaggerated falsetto is a plea for an enemy sneak attack if I've ever heard one. "'I just want to shake my big bottom in your face, back and forth -'"
There is a noise behind me. Somebody just grunted. Twigs snapping. Now silence. My pulse is racing as I crouch behind the nearest tree and draw my sword. Detro is unfazed. "- and back and forth, and just rub your cute little face aaalll over it! Please, Pel honey, Pleeeaassse!'" Now even Stenser is laughing, along with the rest. So much careless noise and inattention. Should I give the signal? Still no sign from sorry old Fonli. This must be it, then. I wonder what he'll look like, my killer? How many will I take with me? I dearly, dearly hope that I can at least -
"Get up, Dashir." Startled by the nearness of such a low voice, I recoil and smack my helmet against the trunk of the tree. Then I relax. "You're a good soldier, Bol." A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. "Settle down." The sun hasn't shone all morning, yet now Com'der Poan eases out of the underbrush and right into a patch of sunshine. A few seconds later he's followed by Jes Fonli. Fonli's not easing anywhere just at the moment. Instead, he's sporting a bright red sash across his chestplate and a bright red look of worried embarrassment across his face.
I like Com'der Poan.
Detro is in full swing by now. "That sorry old sulky bear Dashir, he just can't pleeeaaaassse me the way that you can, darling Pel!'" I can actually hear him dancing out the part of my wife out there. It sounds very flattering. The Com'der grimaces. He knows all the waiting and suspense has the men all restless, sure; I mean, he's a real vet. Been around for years. But this kind of nonsense'll get good soldiers killed, too. Compromise the mission. So he whistles three times sharply, a Com'der's prerogative in the field. Detro stops dancing, and Stenser and the rest stop their commotion, too. He motions me towards the clearing ahead. What am I supposed to do? He sees my look I guess, and nods. Oh, scouts have cleared it. It's alright, then. Alright, then.
The selvat begins filing into the wide, sunlit clearing.There's Stenser and the others from my line here, as well as the two forward scouts from the southern line of trees, walking tall and chatting. Always watch how the scouts are walking, I always say. Fonli's managed to pull kitchen privileges in addition to his new colors, and sets to unpacking his bag and handing out a week's worth of FD (that's Fine Dining to you) rations to the first seven men in. He doesn't look at me when he tries to give me mine. I give it back anyway. The rest of us pull out our own, and we settle down for lunch between three wide bancher trees. The thick low-lying branches and dense foliage make for a feeling of safety, at least for those of us fated to escape harm, reach cover, and live to fight another day. The Com'der strides into the middle of the ring, waiting without expression for the last few men to arrive. Detro tries to slide in unnoticed, you can just tell, but the Com'der turns and gives him a look when he sits down, just a look, then looks back away. Detro knows he's lucky he didn't get sashed himself, and that it could just as easily be his rations feeding seven hungry soldiers right now.
Nobody speaks, everybody just sits there aimlessly chowing away. The Com'der is still standing there, waiting. Then Rever sort of is just there all of a sudden, already sitting on his helmet, eating his FD, between two soldiers who'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder just a moment before. I can't explain Rever, so I won't even try. Let's just say he's the rear guard, and he's always the rear guard. There's usually two rear guards in a selvat, but when Rever's along, he's the only one. I'm sure he'll live to see one of those happy endings.
Now that we're all accounted for, the Com'der speaks. "The Witch of Sigard is a formidable opponent. We will have our hands full dealing with her when we reach Bemer." Bemer's the city where the Ministress is staying. It's supposed to be a real den of thieves. We were told in our briefing that she was in town to meet with the local baron (they call them Proninces here in Siguard) about some policy initiative or some such. Weird little heathens, these Siguardians. Seems to me all we ever hear about is them passing this resolution or discussing this policy, or forming that committee... They don't know how to get things done like The General does. See, there's a man of action for you. "See your objective, sieze your objective," that's one of his big sayings. I mean, look at us; do you really think we'd be several hundred miles into Sigardian territory right now, if his plans had to pass through a slew of committees and Councilors first?
"If we reach Bemer, that is. Orders were, and still are, for Order Two Silence." The Com'der starts walking along the circle, patiently, fixing his gaze on each soldier in turn. "I've got plenty more sashes, men. One size fits all." He stops and turns and looks towards the southeastern end of the field. So do we. A rabbhit hops out of the underbrush a full stone away, followed by a series of little fluff balls, bouncing aimlessly, this way and that. Her wide-eyed kits. He continues walking. "I've observed a great interest, almost a subversive interest, in the hind-quarters of our quarry. A driving need to discuss a cute little heathen girl's behind. A need which leads good men to forget their marching orders. Very well. Let's talk about that ass." The Com'dor stops, close to Detro's end of the semi-circle, looks back down the line and adopts the timeless pose of a drill instructor addressing formation - broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind the back.
"It is supple, rounded, and of generous proportion. It appears to be, according to reports, very firm. Is it unfashionably or unforgivably large? Maybe by honest Godian standards, but speaking for myself, I find this latest trend among our women, where they deny themselves food in order to maintain a weak and fragile body weight, to be very unhealthy and unappealing." He begins walking, hands still behind his back, back down the line. "I say, a big ass is a healthy ass. But this particular ass is so healthy it would kill you. This particular healthy ass is an enemy ass. As such, it has no appeal for you and I. Further, it is the ass of a sorceress, an unscrupulous Magician. It is the most visible ass of our enemy's secret weapon, the Krysli." His hands were out now. "I have seen one Krysli mow down an entire selvat with my own - two - eyes." The Com'dor stops and punctuates the last three words with his fist in his palm. "And as the filthy bitch killed my friends and my Com'dor, I did not find myself thinking about her ass, gentlemen." He smiles grimly, "I was thinking about my own, and how I could possibly save it. So understand that you will never touch it. Never squeeze it. Never hold it. But if you're lucky," he smiles and looks around at us all, "you might just outlive it. Follow your orders, men. Ears and eyes sharp. This is the most dangerous mission you've ever been on. Ned?"
Ned's one of the forward scouts. He answers quickly, "Sir?"
"How's the game look in the forest up ahead?"
"Lots more of them rabbhits, sir. Could be we could scare up a deer or two. Maybe."
"See to it. It's time to save our remaining rations for the trip back. We won't have time to hunt again." He turns back to the rest of the selvat. "Men, we are within 48 hours of our objective. Act like it. Now pack it up and get to it."
Fonli is the first man out into the glade. Out of formation, ahead of the scouts even, headed for the southern line of trees, but who can really blame him, right? The rest of us aren't in quite the same hurry. It's been a long, hard mission is what I'm thinking, and judging by the general silence all around, punctuated by the occasional grunt as we shoulder our packs, I'd - say, where's Detro?
The sun ducks behind a cloud as if on cue, there's a sudden sweet spring rain smell, and with a deafening crash the bansher trees explode into white fire. Shouting, screaming, I can't see or hear a thing, but I'm not dead. I'm not dead. Turning in the only direction I can figure, away, I bump into somebody or something that gives, but I am not dead.
No, that's coming shortly. See, I've had a lot of time to think about it, sitting here with my head resting in the crook of this bansher tree. This one's on the edge of the forest, the southern edge, you know, where we were going. Lucky for me, I'm facing back towards the field. I can see everything with my newfound perspective, not to mention this wonderful, peaceful calm that's soaking up the world around me now. Blood and calm, beautiful peace. The sun's back out and feels excellent and right on my face. My pretty face. Didn't I mention that I had a pretty face? Like you hadn't noticed. I nearly split a gut laughing. I'm so clever. Right.Time to think about it. Here's what happened, near as I can tell. Our target, in a real show of Siguardian hospitality, came to us. I really am clever, by the by.
That flash of light, the blazing heat and mighty roar? That was a Krysli, coming to wage a little war on her would-be captors. Must have broken Com'der Poan's heart. We were so careful, well, most of the time, anyway. How I managed to stumble free of that terrible hell and fury, I can't say. It appears now that a fair number of good Godian soldiers were blown to oblivion in that one, fell stroke. At least, I can only see five or six bodies, dead or dying, that seem to have made it clear of the campsite, which by the way is engulfed in flames right now. Such obscene heat and violence in the middle of the day, along with Stenser's unceasing sobs just twenty paces in front of me, that should be unnerving to me. I would be unnerved, too, if everything wasn't so stained beautiful!
But I made it out. Made it out and realized I was headed to the wrong side of the clearing. A huge, mammoth man, a ridiculously-dressed man, broke out of the forest ahead at a full gallop, and the sun returned to trumpet his arrival. I say he was ridiculously dressed because he had what appeared to be a fine sellen shirt of a dull, silvery grey, complete with a matching grey scarf looped carelessly across his broad neck, streaming in the wind behind him. And solid black trousers, of the skin-tight, clingy variety so common among the heathens these days. He would have been out of fashion in any nation of Sid, but as it was, he looked like he should be at a ball, or on a stage entertaining the gentry, anything but charging recklessly into a field of battle. Except that he was huge and brandishing an enormous sword. Funny thing about that, maybe it was my confusion, blinking and deaf as I was, but that sword seemed to glide across the field, only vaguely associated with it's bearer. It neither dipped nor rose, though the man bounded across the grass in huge, loping strides. It remained perfectly poised at gut level, my gut level. He was beautiful, after all. I faced my killer and he was lovely.
There was nothing between us as he closed the gap except for, well, OK, Fonli was in the way, but now he was down, and the high-reaching arc of his lifeblood stood perfectly frozen in the sunlight. How surreal, I remember thinking as I watched Fonli's legs kick and writhe, now wrenching over onto his back and shaking uncontrollably. To lay on your back and watch your blood fall all around you, in a perfectly deposed half-circle.
This could only be Garth Vencher. The legendary Man Without Armor, known almost as well for his bizarre and flashy dress as he was for his skill with the blade. A different colored sel scarf and shirt ensemble for any occasion, and they say he never killed a man that didn't deserve it. Funny thing, focused as I was on his sword, I never even saw the stroke that spilled everything that was Fonli all up into the autumn sunlight. I must have blinked. Course, not weighed down by any pesky armor, Vencher hardly even missed a step passing Fonli. Didn't even pause to make sure of his kill. He knew that flapping body was no longer of concern, and so did his sword. The blade resumed it's sinister glide. I squared my shoulders, drew my sword, and looked my death in the eyes and thought, what a worthy enemy. I am honored. Seriously.
All this, it seems to me, took place in my clever little mind, you know, the one right behind my pretty face, in the space of about four of the giant's bounding strides. One more and he would be upon me. Except (here's the clever part, mind you) -
Yes! The great Vencher was not invincible, he had his flaws! He was so consumed with throwing his weight at you, I guess throwing fear at you more than anything, that his first stroke would go wide, wide left, wide just like that! And just like that, I was past him, rolling on my right shoulder under his trailing left leg. Such a tiny opening, but I found it! Yes! I turned around and saw that he was just as surprised as I was, scrambling to a halt some ten paces away and whirling and actually looking at me this time. That's right, Garth Vencher. I survived, just like I survived that burning cauldron over your shoulder that was our campsite just a few minutes ago. Now I understood. I had a purpose to serve. I would strike a blow that would make my doomed selvat with its doomed Com'der proud. I could beat this legend, and claim glory for my nation, my army, and my young son. I pressed my advantage, he still had to be a little off balance from such a -
Somebody punched me several times, in the back of my head, across my back, and finally, a real mean one in the back of my neck. I fell to my knees, but only for a moment. I got up right away, and Garth Vencher was gone. The trees were burning purple and the thick smoke was a rich shade of brown. Vencher was gone. Gone because... why was he gone? I was going to smite him. But somebody had punched me from behind, so I got up and whirled my sword with a long swing as I turned. Nobody there, either. Oh sure, a few Sigardian greenbacks loping past me, and some arrows zipping here and there, and of course Fonli. Still twitching, what a soldier! But the greenbacks didn't seem to want to fight me, they just passed by me on either side. So did the arrows. Maybe the green-tufted arrows would find a nice pair of green shoulder blades to part. Me, I didn't care right then, I just wanted to find who had punched me and pay them back. Had to be in the trees up ahead. So I headed that way.
I really don't know what I was thinking. I think I wanted to punch somebody. I must have fallen a half dozen times. By the time I made it to the edge of the wood, my hearing had almost returned, and over the dull roar and crackling of the dying banchers behind me, I heard Stenser, I think it was Stenser, wail surprisingly close to me. It hurt to move my head in any direction, so I sat down to think about what to do next. The battle would have to wait. Stenser would have to wait. I found this bancher, got on the far side of it, and looked back. Right there in front of me was the most inviting fork in a branch this boy, this clever pretty boy, had ever seen. Just past it, I saw that it was indeed Stenser, and he was hunched over on his knees, like I said, twenty paces away. He looked like he was going to be sick. The fork was right at my chin level if I stayed up here on my own knees, and it looked like the cure my aching neck needed. Stenser should have it so good. As a bonus, once he fell I could see the whole clearing in front of me, although the flames in the little burning grove looked like they were trying to lick the eave of the forest's canopy right in front of me. I stared at it forever, and in that single breath became aware that everything around me was beautiful. Everything that I could see, and everything that I couldn't see were all lovely to the point of tears. And that made me feel... so relaxed. I'll never see my son again, but he is beautiful. It's OK. My wife will cry, and her tears will be liquid diamonds, and she will be beautiful as well. She already is. Always was. And no, her ass isn't fat. Not at all. Neither is Lida Vianna's. Not really. I'm looking at it right now.
Turns out I'm dying, right on schedule. I'd imagine I've got a nice little collection of green-feathered arrows sprouting out of my back. I'm going out as a greenback, can you believe it? The Lady Vianna, Slut of the South, is bending over Stenser and trying to... what's she trying to do? Comfort him? Offer a him the Red Hand to ease his suffering? I can't see her hands. Over the curve of her back I see other Sigardians, dragging my dead selvat into the blaze of the bancher trees. A high, arching branch splits loose with a sharp crack and falls right onto one of the greenbacks. Normally I'd smile at such tiny vengeance, but for one, my face has stopped responding to my head, and two, now that everything is so calm and soothing, I find myself wondering if he has a family, a wife and kids, friends at the local pub. He drops the body and manages to pull free, but his hair's on fire. He tumbles and rolls and then just lays there in the grass on his back, pounding the ground and hollering up a storm. The fire's out, he'll get to see his family and friends, and have a great story to boot. I miss my wife. I wish I could see her again.
Lida's face is right in front of mine. Had I working arms, I could smack her. I could just as easily hug her. I try to smile, but nothing happens. She's searching my face, probably trying to see if I'm alive. I couldn't answer that one myself, even if I could make a sound. The dull, distant pressure of that arrow in my neck feels like it's mangled a lot more than my vocal chords. So I just stare back, as politely as a dead man can. I'd like to say that she is devastatingly beautiful, like they say, or that she looks like a Daughter of the Five Fathers, but instead she is just pretty. Her mouth isn't anything like I expected. But her nose, that's easily the most wonderful thing I've seen in a month of months. What a beautiful nose! It turns up and down equally without committing to either way, if you understand me. A perfect little triangle underneath that mane of fierce red hair, and those two curious white locks framing the whole affair. Hair, affair, I'm barely there. How's life treating you, Miss Vianna? Very well, thanks, and how is death treating you, Mr. Dashir? Oh, you know, I can't complain, your boys took good care of me. Bless them. How kind of you to say, Bol. I love you. And I love you, Lida Vianna.
No helping Red Hand, no caress of the dying man's cheek. She must figure me as already gone. She just rises quickly, turns, and walks back out to the clearing. She's wearing one of those sleeveless, tunic-skirt things everyone's always on about. Her back is like a gazelle's. What is it with these people and their clothes? Hey! There are only, what, five or six Sigardians out there? That's all it took to take out eighteen of Godii's finest? Well, there's Garth Vencher. I sure gave him something to talk about. My son Braud would've loved to have heard how his old man got the drop on the Flaming Blade himself. Funny, here I am, and I'm not even thinking about any afterlife with any of the Five Fathers, or meeting my own father again, or anything. I'm just trying to stay awake here. Seems like there's something left to see, something I need to know before I, well, you know. I've got a lovely view, must be a reason, right? The most gorgeous nose in all of Sid is presently hitching a ride toward a low mound in the field, safely on this side of the blaze, where the greenbacks and Vencher have gathered to discuss what-not about the battle. Then there's a loud crash and the brittle snap-snap of bracken giving way somewhere behind me in the trees.
I'd love to be able to look around just now. Truly I would. No matter, it's headed right for me. No, not when everything's all misty and lovely! Just let me fade out easy, don't hand me the further indignity of some cowardly sneak attack on a defenseless, dying, beautiful, clever young soldier -
A long-haired naked man flies past me out of the trees. I mean butt-naked and bouncing. The Ministress of Transportation and Sanitation for the Esteemed Union of Siguard turns just in time to get tackled by him. Oh the face she made! The greenbacks are just drawing their weapons and Vencher's already half-way across the clearing, doing that glide thing with his sword again. Fellow, I could use some water right now. Or some music. So could the naked man. Already back on his feet, he appears to be oblivious to Vencher and the rest bearing down on him as hops and hoots an unintelligible, ridiculous circle around the stunned Pride of the Krysli. He has an insane look of joy on his face. He has his penis in his hand. Oh. It's alright, then.
Alright, then. I -
I've always been this way. It's like my mother always said, bless her. You (meaning me) don't know how good you've got it. Always focused on the negative. You pray for the rain when the sun is shining. Always said how you couldn't wait to grow up and be important (hey, Mom, look, I'm a soldier!), and now all you do is complain about how you wish you were a kid again. Lot's of motherly stuff like that. Still, like they say, all whys lead to a mother. She knows the reason. Knew the reason.
See, I've just always had this certainty, and believe you me, I've tried to shake it, that I won't live past thirty years old. I've argued, pleaded, reasoned, drank, and nothing can stop this feeling from squeezing my future dry. I have nothing to look forward to. I'm living on borrowed time. I turned thirty just two months ago.
"They say she's got a right burner down south." That's Fonli. Right in my ear. He's the right kind of man. The kind of man that doesn't see his death leering at him from behind every tree, under every snapped twig. Got it all figured that The Slut just needs to meet the right kind of man, so he's feeling pretty good about the mission.
Oh yeah, right. This is a story. "The Slut" is the Lady Lida Vianna, Ministress of Something or Other, Shining Representative of the Free and Just Peoples of Siguard. Defender of the planet's virtue, or words to that effect, in the face of dire Godian Expansionism. Right. Godii, that's my country. I'm dire, in spite of Fonli, and we're currently expanding, oh, about three hundred or so miles into Siguardian territory. She'd really hate me.
Fonli was trying not to sound repetitve, but there are only so many different ways you can say you'd like to bed your target during a thirty two day crawl through enemy territory, you know? Still looking on the bright side, he just has to keep on. "It's not right, woman like that carryin' on like that. I tell you, she just needs a good man, ride her 'round the yard a few times. Fatten her up a little. I sure would like just a few minutes alone with her. Get something straight between us." He pauses, and makes sure to match his stride to mine, so he can get my reaction. I try offering up my usual chuckle (hey, I try to oblige), but instead he gets The Grunt.
"She's got a big ass."
Fonli looks genuinely disappointed. "Aw, I don't -"
"Sure you do. You and me and most of the rest of the guys, here and back home. That fancy hair, those sleeveless things she sports, gettin' women all up in arms back home, worried their men are going to find some free-spirited heathen Sigardian girl and forget all about family and security and the like. She's a looker, make no mistake, but she's got a big ass. You forget, I've actually seen her, last Plant."
Or was it the Plant before last? You know, that's the worst part of the whole stained thing. Not only am I racing headlong into certain death with every step, I can't remember anything right. I have a terrible memory. The color of my mom's eyes? Couldn't tell you. The capital of -
"What do you think, Stenser?" Of course, Fonli's shouting, 'cause Stenser is a stone to the east. Fonli's voice seems suddenly shrill in the crisp morning air. He's a bit of a drudge, meaning anyone within three stones could've heard him. Just in case they didn't, he keeps on. "Dash says she's got a BIG ASS! Which is funny comin' from Dash! You ever see his wife? Hurm and gurm, fellow, there's a black pot for you!"
Stenser's a good man, so he knows to keep quiet. Fent on the other hand...
"I heard ol' Dash just married her for the money. Know who her old man is? There's a reason that ass is fat!"
"Hell yeah!" chirruped Fonli. "Old Monteva, mastersmith extraordinary, provider of arms for the Third and Fourth Ballians, and the maker of this very sword I'm carryin' right here!" He draws it, even though nobody but me can see him, and swings it carelessly around his head a few times until he manages to lodge it in a branch overhead. "I'm just sayin'," he pauses and tries to remove his blade. Lots of noise, no results. "- that ol' Dash here's wife's ass is twice the size of The Slut's!" Now there's guffaws not just from Fent but from somebody over on my side, some ways off to the west, probably Detro. This is great. I can just see Sigardians grinning to each other as they approach. I'm going to die because Fonli and Fent can't decide who's got a bigger ass, my wife or the Lady Vianna.
Struggling with his sword and the tree, Fonli's falling behind. Me, I'm not going to wait for him. So what if my wife's ass is fat? Or maybe I should wait. No sense trying to avoid the ambush. I'm slated for death either way I go. I stop and turn around.
But Fonli got a laugh and that's wood to a fire. Louder still, he fairly bellows, "Not that she's not a sweet woman, Dashir! Just tell her to stop posting me! There's only room for one big butt in my life, and The Slut's got it!" So I turn back around. No sense dying next to a drudge who's ripping your wife. Sure, I get along with most folks, but Fonli here isn't what I'd call extended mission company, if you know what I mean. He's just not built to endear.
The trees are beginning to thin ahead. We can't be far from the road now. If I were an ambush, where would I be lurking?
"I hear she's a virgin!" Yeah, that's Detro all right. Six days without an enemy sighting should make a fighting man more wary, but then there's folk like Fonli and Detro.
Fonli doesn't answer, so Fent fills in. "Who, Dashir's wife? Must be that positive outlook of his!" To my right, Detro snickers in the distance. If I were an ambush, I'd be lurking one decapitating stroke to the right of Detro. I'm sorry, but that man's a snake. You'll see.
You won't even have to wait long. "Well that bottom-heavy virgin surely can dance, let me tell you!" There he goes, always there on the periphery of any discussion, provided its unpleasant enough, ready to swoop in for an easy shot. Me, I suppose I'm an easy shot. "Every time we're back in town, she posts me, 'Pleeeaasssee let me come and dance for you again, Pel! Like I did all that week last Plant while Sulky Dash was off throating it in dirty old Siguard!" Detro's exaggerated falsetto is a plea for an enemy sneak attack if I've ever heard one. "'I just want to shake my big bottom in your face, back and forth -'"
There is a noise behind me. Somebody just grunted. Twigs snapping. Now silence. My pulse is racing as I crouch behind the nearest tree and draw my sword. Detro is unfazed. "- and back and forth, and just rub your cute little face aaalll over it! Please, Pel honey, Pleeeaassse!'" Now even Stenser is laughing, along with the rest. So much careless noise and inattention. Should I give the signal? Still no sign from sorry old Fonli. This must be it, then. I wonder what he'll look like, my killer? How many will I take with me? I dearly, dearly hope that I can at least -
"Get up, Dashir." Startled by the nearness of such a low voice, I recoil and smack my helmet against the trunk of the tree. Then I relax. "You're a good soldier, Bol." A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. "Settle down." The sun hasn't shone all morning, yet now Com'der Poan eases out of the underbrush and right into a patch of sunshine. A few seconds later he's followed by Jes Fonli. Fonli's not easing anywhere just at the moment. Instead, he's sporting a bright red sash across his chestplate and a bright red look of worried embarrassment across his face.
I like Com'der Poan.
Detro is in full swing by now. "That sorry old sulky bear Dashir, he just can't pleeeaaaassse me the way that you can, darling Pel!'" I can actually hear him dancing out the part of my wife out there. It sounds very flattering. The Com'der grimaces. He knows all the waiting and suspense has the men all restless, sure; I mean, he's a real vet. Been around for years. But this kind of nonsense'll get good soldiers killed, too. Compromise the mission. So he whistles three times sharply, a Com'der's prerogative in the field. Detro stops dancing, and Stenser and the rest stop their commotion, too. He motions me towards the clearing ahead. What am I supposed to do? He sees my look I guess, and nods. Oh, scouts have cleared it. It's alright, then. Alright, then.
The selvat begins filing into the wide, sunlit clearing.There's Stenser and the others from my line here, as well as the two forward scouts from the southern line of trees, walking tall and chatting. Always watch how the scouts are walking, I always say. Fonli's managed to pull kitchen privileges in addition to his new colors, and sets to unpacking his bag and handing out a week's worth of FD (that's Fine Dining to you) rations to the first seven men in. He doesn't look at me when he tries to give me mine. I give it back anyway. The rest of us pull out our own, and we settle down for lunch between three wide bancher trees. The thick low-lying branches and dense foliage make for a feeling of safety, at least for those of us fated to escape harm, reach cover, and live to fight another day. The Com'der strides into the middle of the ring, waiting without expression for the last few men to arrive. Detro tries to slide in unnoticed, you can just tell, but the Com'der turns and gives him a look when he sits down, just a look, then looks back away. Detro knows he's lucky he didn't get sashed himself, and that it could just as easily be his rations feeding seven hungry soldiers right now.
Nobody speaks, everybody just sits there aimlessly chowing away. The Com'der is still standing there, waiting. Then Rever sort of is just there all of a sudden, already sitting on his helmet, eating his FD, between two soldiers who'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder just a moment before. I can't explain Rever, so I won't even try. Let's just say he's the rear guard, and he's always the rear guard. There's usually two rear guards in a selvat, but when Rever's along, he's the only one. I'm sure he'll live to see one of those happy endings.
Now that we're all accounted for, the Com'der speaks. "The Witch of Sigard is a formidable opponent. We will have our hands full dealing with her when we reach Bemer." Bemer's the city where the Ministress is staying. It's supposed to be a real den of thieves. We were told in our briefing that she was in town to meet with the local baron (they call them Proninces here in Siguard) about some policy initiative or some such. Weird little heathens, these Siguardians. Seems to me all we ever hear about is them passing this resolution or discussing this policy, or forming that committee... They don't know how to get things done like The General does. See, there's a man of action for you. "See your objective, sieze your objective," that's one of his big sayings. I mean, look at us; do you really think we'd be several hundred miles into Sigardian territory right now, if his plans had to pass through a slew of committees and Councilors first?
"If we reach Bemer, that is. Orders were, and still are, for Order Two Silence." The Com'der starts walking along the circle, patiently, fixing his gaze on each soldier in turn. "I've got plenty more sashes, men. One size fits all." He stops and turns and looks towards the southeastern end of the field. So do we. A rabbhit hops out of the underbrush a full stone away, followed by a series of little fluff balls, bouncing aimlessly, this way and that. Her wide-eyed kits. He continues walking. "I've observed a great interest, almost a subversive interest, in the hind-quarters of our quarry. A driving need to discuss a cute little heathen girl's behind. A need which leads good men to forget their marching orders. Very well. Let's talk about that ass." The Com'dor stops, close to Detro's end of the semi-circle, looks back down the line and adopts the timeless pose of a drill instructor addressing formation - broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind the back.
"It is supple, rounded, and of generous proportion. It appears to be, according to reports, very firm. Is it unfashionably or unforgivably large? Maybe by honest Godian standards, but speaking for myself, I find this latest trend among our women, where they deny themselves food in order to maintain a weak and fragile body weight, to be very unhealthy and unappealing." He begins walking, hands still behind his back, back down the line. "I say, a big ass is a healthy ass. But this particular ass is so healthy it would kill you. This particular healthy ass is an enemy ass. As such, it has no appeal for you and I. Further, it is the ass of a sorceress, an unscrupulous Magician. It is the most visible ass of our enemy's secret weapon, the Krysli." His hands were out now. "I have seen one Krysli mow down an entire selvat with my own - two - eyes." The Com'dor stops and punctuates the last three words with his fist in his palm. "And as the filthy bitch killed my friends and my Com'dor, I did not find myself thinking about her ass, gentlemen." He smiles grimly, "I was thinking about my own, and how I could possibly save it. So understand that you will never touch it. Never squeeze it. Never hold it. But if you're lucky," he smiles and looks around at us all, "you might just outlive it. Follow your orders, men. Ears and eyes sharp. This is the most dangerous mission you've ever been on. Ned?"
Ned's one of the forward scouts. He answers quickly, "Sir?"
"How's the game look in the forest up ahead?"
"Lots more of them rabbhits, sir. Could be we could scare up a deer or two. Maybe."
"See to it. It's time to save our remaining rations for the trip back. We won't have time to hunt again." He turns back to the rest of the selvat. "Men, we are within 48 hours of our objective. Act like it. Now pack it up and get to it."
Fonli is the first man out into the glade. Out of formation, ahead of the scouts even, headed for the southern line of trees, but who can really blame him, right? The rest of us aren't in quite the same hurry. It's been a long, hard mission is what I'm thinking, and judging by the general silence all around, punctuated by the occasional grunt as we shoulder our packs, I'd - say, where's Detro?
The sun ducks behind a cloud as if on cue, there's a sudden sweet spring rain smell, and with a deafening crash the bansher trees explode into white fire. Shouting, screaming, I can't see or hear a thing, but I'm not dead. I'm not dead. Turning in the only direction I can figure, away, I bump into somebody or something that gives, but I am not dead.
No, that's coming shortly. See, I've had a lot of time to think about it, sitting here with my head resting in the crook of this bansher tree. This one's on the edge of the forest, the southern edge, you know, where we were going. Lucky for me, I'm facing back towards the field. I can see everything with my newfound perspective, not to mention this wonderful, peaceful calm that's soaking up the world around me now. Blood and calm, beautiful peace. The sun's back out and feels excellent and right on my face. My pretty face. Didn't I mention that I had a pretty face? Like you hadn't noticed. I nearly split a gut laughing. I'm so clever. Right.Time to think about it. Here's what happened, near as I can tell. Our target, in a real show of Siguardian hospitality, came to us. I really am clever, by the by.
That flash of light, the blazing heat and mighty roar? That was a Krysli, coming to wage a little war on her would-be captors. Must have broken Com'der Poan's heart. We were so careful, well, most of the time, anyway. How I managed to stumble free of that terrible hell and fury, I can't say. It appears now that a fair number of good Godian soldiers were blown to oblivion in that one, fell stroke. At least, I can only see five or six bodies, dead or dying, that seem to have made it clear of the campsite, which by the way is engulfed in flames right now. Such obscene heat and violence in the middle of the day, along with Stenser's unceasing sobs just twenty paces in front of me, that should be unnerving to me. I would be unnerved, too, if everything wasn't so stained beautiful!
But I made it out. Made it out and realized I was headed to the wrong side of the clearing. A huge, mammoth man, a ridiculously-dressed man, broke out of the forest ahead at a full gallop, and the sun returned to trumpet his arrival. I say he was ridiculously dressed because he had what appeared to be a fine sellen shirt of a dull, silvery grey, complete with a matching grey scarf looped carelessly across his broad neck, streaming in the wind behind him. And solid black trousers, of the skin-tight, clingy variety so common among the heathens these days. He would have been out of fashion in any nation of Sid, but as it was, he looked like he should be at a ball, or on a stage entertaining the gentry, anything but charging recklessly into a field of battle. Except that he was huge and brandishing an enormous sword. Funny thing about that, maybe it was my confusion, blinking and deaf as I was, but that sword seemed to glide across the field, only vaguely associated with it's bearer. It neither dipped nor rose, though the man bounded across the grass in huge, loping strides. It remained perfectly poised at gut level, my gut level. He was beautiful, after all. I faced my killer and he was lovely.
There was nothing between us as he closed the gap except for, well, OK, Fonli was in the way, but now he was down, and the high-reaching arc of his lifeblood stood perfectly frozen in the sunlight. How surreal, I remember thinking as I watched Fonli's legs kick and writhe, now wrenching over onto his back and shaking uncontrollably. To lay on your back and watch your blood fall all around you, in a perfectly deposed half-circle.
This could only be Garth Vencher. The legendary Man Without Armor, known almost as well for his bizarre and flashy dress as he was for his skill with the blade. A different colored sel scarf and shirt ensemble for any occasion, and they say he never killed a man that didn't deserve it. Funny thing, focused as I was on his sword, I never even saw the stroke that spilled everything that was Fonli all up into the autumn sunlight. I must have blinked. Course, not weighed down by any pesky armor, Vencher hardly even missed a step passing Fonli. Didn't even pause to make sure of his kill. He knew that flapping body was no longer of concern, and so did his sword. The blade resumed it's sinister glide. I squared my shoulders, drew my sword, and looked my death in the eyes and thought, what a worthy enemy. I am honored. Seriously.
All this, it seems to me, took place in my clever little mind, you know, the one right behind my pretty face, in the space of about four of the giant's bounding strides. One more and he would be upon me. Except (here's the clever part, mind you) -
Yes! The great Vencher was not invincible, he had his flaws! He was so consumed with throwing his weight at you, I guess throwing fear at you more than anything, that his first stroke would go wide, wide left, wide just like that! And just like that, I was past him, rolling on my right shoulder under his trailing left leg. Such a tiny opening, but I found it! Yes! I turned around and saw that he was just as surprised as I was, scrambling to a halt some ten paces away and whirling and actually looking at me this time. That's right, Garth Vencher. I survived, just like I survived that burning cauldron over your shoulder that was our campsite just a few minutes ago. Now I understood. I had a purpose to serve. I would strike a blow that would make my doomed selvat with its doomed Com'der proud. I could beat this legend, and claim glory for my nation, my army, and my young son. I pressed my advantage, he still had to be a little off balance from such a -
Somebody punched me several times, in the back of my head, across my back, and finally, a real mean one in the back of my neck. I fell to my knees, but only for a moment. I got up right away, and Garth Vencher was gone. The trees were burning purple and the thick smoke was a rich shade of brown. Vencher was gone. Gone because... why was he gone? I was going to smite him. But somebody had punched me from behind, so I got up and whirled my sword with a long swing as I turned. Nobody there, either. Oh sure, a few Sigardian greenbacks loping past me, and some arrows zipping here and there, and of course Fonli. Still twitching, what a soldier! But the greenbacks didn't seem to want to fight me, they just passed by me on either side. So did the arrows. Maybe the green-tufted arrows would find a nice pair of green shoulder blades to part. Me, I didn't care right then, I just wanted to find who had punched me and pay them back. Had to be in the trees up ahead. So I headed that way.
I really don't know what I was thinking. I think I wanted to punch somebody. I must have fallen a half dozen times. By the time I made it to the edge of the wood, my hearing had almost returned, and over the dull roar and crackling of the dying banchers behind me, I heard Stenser, I think it was Stenser, wail surprisingly close to me. It hurt to move my head in any direction, so I sat down to think about what to do next. The battle would have to wait. Stenser would have to wait. I found this bancher, got on the far side of it, and looked back. Right there in front of me was the most inviting fork in a branch this boy, this clever pretty boy, had ever seen. Just past it, I saw that it was indeed Stenser, and he was hunched over on his knees, like I said, twenty paces away. He looked like he was going to be sick. The fork was right at my chin level if I stayed up here on my own knees, and it looked like the cure my aching neck needed. Stenser should have it so good. As a bonus, once he fell I could see the whole clearing in front of me, although the flames in the little burning grove looked like they were trying to lick the eave of the forest's canopy right in front of me. I stared at it forever, and in that single breath became aware that everything around me was beautiful. Everything that I could see, and everything that I couldn't see were all lovely to the point of tears. And that made me feel... so relaxed. I'll never see my son again, but he is beautiful. It's OK. My wife will cry, and her tears will be liquid diamonds, and she will be beautiful as well. She already is. Always was. And no, her ass isn't fat. Not at all. Neither is Lida Vianna's. Not really. I'm looking at it right now.
Turns out I'm dying, right on schedule. I'd imagine I've got a nice little collection of green-feathered arrows sprouting out of my back. I'm going out as a greenback, can you believe it? The Lady Vianna, Slut of the South, is bending over Stenser and trying to... what's she trying to do? Comfort him? Offer a him the Red Hand to ease his suffering? I can't see her hands. Over the curve of her back I see other Sigardians, dragging my dead selvat into the blaze of the bancher trees. A high, arching branch splits loose with a sharp crack and falls right onto one of the greenbacks. Normally I'd smile at such tiny vengeance, but for one, my face has stopped responding to my head, and two, now that everything is so calm and soothing, I find myself wondering if he has a family, a wife and kids, friends at the local pub. He drops the body and manages to pull free, but his hair's on fire. He tumbles and rolls and then just lays there in the grass on his back, pounding the ground and hollering up a storm. The fire's out, he'll get to see his family and friends, and have a great story to boot. I miss my wife. I wish I could see her again.
Lida's face is right in front of mine. Had I working arms, I could smack her. I could just as easily hug her. I try to smile, but nothing happens. She's searching my face, probably trying to see if I'm alive. I couldn't answer that one myself, even if I could make a sound. The dull, distant pressure of that arrow in my neck feels like it's mangled a lot more than my vocal chords. So I just stare back, as politely as a dead man can. I'd like to say that she is devastatingly beautiful, like they say, or that she looks like a Daughter of the Five Fathers, but instead she is just pretty. Her mouth isn't anything like I expected. But her nose, that's easily the most wonderful thing I've seen in a month of months. What a beautiful nose! It turns up and down equally without committing to either way, if you understand me. A perfect little triangle underneath that mane of fierce red hair, and those two curious white locks framing the whole affair. Hair, affair, I'm barely there. How's life treating you, Miss Vianna? Very well, thanks, and how is death treating you, Mr. Dashir? Oh, you know, I can't complain, your boys took good care of me. Bless them. How kind of you to say, Bol. I love you. And I love you, Lida Vianna.
No helping Red Hand, no caress of the dying man's cheek. She must figure me as already gone. She just rises quickly, turns, and walks back out to the clearing. She's wearing one of those sleeveless, tunic-skirt things everyone's always on about. Her back is like a gazelle's. What is it with these people and their clothes? Hey! There are only, what, five or six Sigardians out there? That's all it took to take out eighteen of Godii's finest? Well, there's Garth Vencher. I sure gave him something to talk about. My son Braud would've loved to have heard how his old man got the drop on the Flaming Blade himself. Funny, here I am, and I'm not even thinking about any afterlife with any of the Five Fathers, or meeting my own father again, or anything. I'm just trying to stay awake here. Seems like there's something left to see, something I need to know before I, well, you know. I've got a lovely view, must be a reason, right? The most gorgeous nose in all of Sid is presently hitching a ride toward a low mound in the field, safely on this side of the blaze, where the greenbacks and Vencher have gathered to discuss what-not about the battle. Then there's a loud crash and the brittle snap-snap of bracken giving way somewhere behind me in the trees.
I'd love to be able to look around just now. Truly I would. No matter, it's headed right for me. No, not when everything's all misty and lovely! Just let me fade out easy, don't hand me the further indignity of some cowardly sneak attack on a defenseless, dying, beautiful, clever young soldier -
A long-haired naked man flies past me out of the trees. I mean butt-naked and bouncing. The Ministress of Transportation and Sanitation for the Esteemed Union of Siguard turns just in time to get tackled by him. Oh the face she made! The greenbacks are just drawing their weapons and Vencher's already half-way across the clearing, doing that glide thing with his sword again. Fellow, I could use some water right now. Or some music. So could the naked man. Already back on his feet, he appears to be oblivious to Vencher and the rest bearing down on him as hops and hoots an unintelligible, ridiculous circle around the stunned Pride of the Krysli. He has an insane look of joy on his face. He has his penis in his hand. Oh. It's alright, then.
Alright, then. I -
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