The Host of Erminegard

All would be decided by this fight said many. A few saw the truth of the matter. It was no small war they faced, but the end of a way of life. Far out even to the edge of the world they would talk of this as only men who remember the past can, as something that had been fated, but it was always up to men. The dark magic that was coming had already quailed the hearts of many, leading astray the weak. All souls were to be run to ground by the fates. And to resist without any wisdom tempted but more trouble.

He saw the end of the battle take form. Upon the plain they ran toward the shelter of a small grove of trees on a rise. There would be no rally for them, however. They had to retire from the field or face oblivion. The faceless men of Kuzuk were concealed in simple and bizarre masks that only their mad king could desire as they yelled their baseless taunts at their pursuers. The Erminegard host had routed them, having been well paid. But they were only lightly supplied and couldn’t pursue for long.

He had been recruited from the hill clans. Put in battle they were fierce but disloyal. He had been given only leather armor and a short range crossbow. He had been one of the few mounted men, having brought his horse from his clan, but it was old and he soon dismounted to fight freely.

No kills had come his way. To advance he must bring back the body of a fallen warrior. Retreat was shame. To take the back of his fellows was the least he must do. Desertion might only result in being shunned as without honor, never to be seen again. Such persons weren’t spoken of.

A warrior of the Kuzuk seemed to detach himself from the general retreat around him. They both were on the edge of the battle. He saw that this was the one that had harried him throughout the day, always looking elsewhere for fresh victims if he didn’t get a quick wound in. This man seemed overly brave, he began to close range. He had loosed most of his bolts already. Now he must try an overstrung long range shot, though it risked his bow, and could leave him entirely unarmed. His opponent was armed with an iron long sword, and had foolishly discarded his shield. There was no aura of spell, magic, or enchantment about him. Without wizardry this was the best he could hope for.

He fired his last three shots as quick as possible, all three struck his unwary adversary but did no real harm. One missed, another bounced off chain mail, with one drawing scant blood. At the left shoulder the skin was barely cut between an armored joint.

He began to fall back to help those better equipped, more skillful, braver, or more foolhardy. He could only be a servant on this battlefield it seemed.

The Kuzuk warrior ripped off his mask, a major breech among them. Sad serious dark eyes looked straight at him. Then the warrior stripped to the waist without warning. He had been run through the gut with a sword. He could still fight it seemed but wouldn’t live long. What potion he had been given to continue as he did must be powerful, or perhaps it was will alone. Then he fell to his knees and drew out a small artfully concealed knife. He offered it to the hillman.

His amulet that warned of magic stirred lightly against his skin, though this man seemed no magician.
Something must be working through him. Such things were known to occur. He possessed a majesty that no person could have save those that had gone through exertions such as today’s and become wholly resigned to them.

The Kuzuk warrior spoke, “It is good to me that I who can fight no more give my life to a lesser like you. Your sick customs allow you to advance at your corrupt court by the mere presenting of a body gotten from who knows where. Take me you fool. I will weaken Erminegard even in death by giving false honor to your foppery.

He hesitated to attack the fallen man, being no expert at hand to hand combat. But he knew he was just faster than him from events earlier in the day. He closed the distance between them as if to try to take the knife and instead feinted to retrieve one of his arrows. The Kuzuk’s reaction was even more enfeebled, and led into his final collapse. He couldn’t be seen to consort with the enemy so said nothing.

“Truly it is good that the fates sent you to dispatch me. There is no dishonor from the actions of the meek at a distance, it only rebounds on him.”

The amulet stung him deeply in a way he had never felt before. Less intense than strange. A new message from another world to a low hillman.

The warrior’s face was now pale, and his voice became soft and earnest as if talking to a confidant.

“I see that you know nothing of why we fight. I know little but of this I must speak. The unnamed city, built on the humble hill of Haosk, was brought down from without, by Erminegard madness. Seek the wizard Rokahn, he knows the truth.”

His rage was instant and complete, “No, it can’t be! Everyone knows that it fell from its own black magic rotting it to the core. Why do you always attack us and spread your lies. We have had enough of you. We’re surrounded by enemies, but they will be dispatched.”

The time from the fitting of the bolt to the crossbow to its arrival at the destination of the exposed neck of the Kuzuk warrior was so quick it could hardly be seen.

The amulet stilled with the body of the warrior.

He wheeled around, hearing someone behind him. It was one of the lesser captains of the host.
He spoke without cruelty, “Take the body of the fallen to court. I hope you advance there. You are lucky to have survived this battle. And never believe the lies.”