Revenge

Vall nir Kally-Shiram stood at the ramparts, looking down at the plain that stretched out in all directions around the keep. Here, at the frontier of the kingdom, the sky unfolded until it seemed on the verge of swallowing the earth. Constant winds kept the clouds away, and the sun drenched the soil in rays that somehow failed to warm. Despite the cold, it was a peaceful place, far from the capital. On an ordinary day, the grasses of the plain would whisper and beckon in the breezes, undulating like ocean waves.

But today the features of the earth were obliterated, obscured beneath the hordes of a Formorian army. Close to two thousand of the giants milled about hundreds of camp fires that belched smoke and soot into the air. Siege machines thrust their menacing bulk upwards like thorns piercing flesh. They were like a tumor that was eating away at the vitality and beauty of nature.

Vall wiped a lock of hair from his forehead, unmindful of the dirt and blood that came off his leather glove and streaked across his face. He sighed, closed his eyes and bowed his head a moment, trying to picture the soothing sensations of a fire and a warm bed. The chill bit through armor, gambison and flesh, and after three days of solid fighting, the dirt and sweat were beginning to chafe, especially in the groin and the armpits. A bath right now would be as intoxicating as a strong wine. He opened his eyes again, slowly, reluctantly, to look at the forces gathered below.

Vall shook his head - that bastard Morin had compromised all of his lofty ideals to raise this army of savage giants, knowing full well their propensity to relish in the taking of human life - any human life. The Formorians had left behind a swath of death and destruction on their march towards the border of Quados. Soldiers and civilians, men and women, elderly and children alike met the same fate at the end of a Formorian blade. Their intense hatred of humans, based on centuries-old enmities, went deep, and they would stop at nothing to obtain what they saw as revenge.

And yet this was something that Vall could understand and identify with, for the thirst for revenge coursed through his veins like molten lead. Since the day he had watched his family butchered, his life had been filled with a singular desire: to revisit the same pain and anguish that he suffered upon the perpetrator of that act. But satisfaction was slow in coming. Powerful and paranoid, the man Vall hunted had successfully stopped more than one attempt on his life already.

Movement in the Formorian camp interrupted Vall's thoughts. Donning armor and readying weapons, the beasts were preparing for another charge. Turning from the battlements, Vall looked down into the courtyard at the all-too sparse and exhausted troops below. These men were all that was left of Vall's platoon - a token force, at best, that had been taken by surprise at this distant outpost of the Quados Empire. Until reinforcements could arrive, Vall was determined to do everything he could to protect the men in his charge. He didn't need to remind himself that he did this for the men who looked to him as their leader, not for the Emperor of Quados. Despite being a decorated and respected officer in the Emperor's army, he held no love for his liege and lord.

Quite the opposite; it was upon the Emperor Quadan that Vall sought his revenge.

---

The images were as fresh in his mind as the day they had been planted, albeit seeming like events he had only watched rather than participated in.

His father's body slumped to the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath him like a scarlet carpet. A ragged scream, probably his own, rang in his ears. He felt his hand fumbling, touching wood. A chair sailed through the air. A soldier grunted in pain and anger. Another chair went flying and there was a crash of glass.
He was rushing towards the gaping hole in the kitchen window.

His body leaped, and he landed hard on his shoulder on the rocky ground outside. His arms pushed him into an upright position and his feet began to propel him forward with a strength he hadn't known existed in his young limbs. The sounds of men in pursuit followed him for a while, but without his knowledge of the woods around his home, they soon faded away.

Nonetheless, Vall ran until he collapsed.

---
A sudden crashing noise of stone on brick brought him back to the present. Shards of rock whistled through the air past his head. Vall glanced to his left and saw a large boulder tumbling down into the courtyard, crushing wooden equipment and a few wounded. The attack had begun.

Without looking out at the gathered attackers, Vall began shouting orders across the compound. Men scrambled to obey, mounting the ramparts, readying defensive weaponry and praying to their gods.

The Formorian charge followed the same pattern as ever: unleash a barrage from the catapults and then attempt to mount the walls under cover of a hail of arrows. To counter this, Vall had ordered his men to work in teams of two. One was to fire their own arrows at the enemy while the other was to protect him from the same fate that rained down from above. He lifted his own shield in anticipation, the already battered and cracked metal sprouting so many spent shafts that it looked like a seamstress' pincushion.

He watched as the first volley was loosed. The black cloud rose up and over the walls of the keep, and at the last moment Vall lifted his aegis above his head and crouched. Arrows skipped and shattered on the stone wall. He felt the impact in his arm more than once, the force driving his shield against his head, forcing him to grunt as he tried to keep it aloft. The sounds of wounded and dying sprouted up around him as a shaft would find an opening and bite into flesh. Although it took only moments, it felt like an eternity. At last the first barrage lightened, and Vall's men leaped to the counter-attack, sending their own arrows down into the ranks of the approaching tide.

Vall used the brief respite to hurry along the length of the wall, surveying the advancing enemy and taking stock of the status of his own troops. The ragged remnants of his force were hungry and exhausted. Their supply of food had run out quickly, as they had not been anticipating an attack. The gaunt looks of his men spoke of the toll this had taken, and he worried for their ability to keep up the fight for much longer. Arrows were limited, and the shieldman in each pair was as often as not scavenging for enemy shafts that had survived the flight into the keep - at times even pulling them from the bodies of their fallen comrades. Oil and tar were dwindling, and Vall had ordered them readied, but insisted they be held back until the giants attempted to mount the walls. More than once, the Formorians had been repelled by the inescapable fire that poured down from the ramparts. Once this was gone, there would be little to stop them. Vall looked grimly at the near-empty buckets of pitch scattered along the wall. That was it; enough, maybe, to repel one or two more attacks.

Vall heard the tell-tale screaming of another volley of arrows coming down from the sky, and crouched beneath his shield only moments before they landed. Two of his men huddled similarly nearby. He looked at the fear stamped upon their faces. These were seasoned warriors, men who had tasted the smoke of battle more than once; they were used to looking death in the face. But as the siege wore on, their will grew ragged. No one here held hope of victory any longer. Vall was about to say something to them when a shaft ripped through the shieldman's throat. He jerked away from the battlements and collapsed into a heap. His partner, now exposed, was quickly filled with arrows, screaming as his flesh was punctured repeatedly. He, too, fell before Vall's feet, his blood streaming from a number of wounds and running along the flagstones. The red puddle swam forward as if seeking out Vall's boots.

In anger and frustration, Vall sloughed off his shield and took up the fallen man's bow. He stood, ignoring the screaming arrows that whistled by as he loosed shaft after shaft into the enemy ranks. He watched as his aim found its mark time after time. But the enemy's number was too great. It seemed a pointless effort, like gesturing obscenely at a tornado bearing down on you.

The tops of siege ladders gave a wooden thud against the battlements. The Formorians were trying to mount the walls once more. Vall bellowed the order to ready the oil. Everywhere, burning brands were put to buckets of pitch. Vall grabbed a brand from a nearby brazier and plunged it into a bucket near his feet. Sickly green flames quickly sprang to life and began dancing on the inky surface of the oil. He could hear the deep guttural grunts of the Formorians as they ascended their siege ladders. Vall swore he could already smell them, even though their heads had yet to crown the battlements. He lifted the burning pitch in both hands, careful not to spill any of the sticky liquid upon himself. He stepped out from behind the merlon and unceremoniously dumped it over the edge of the wall. Screams of pain immediately rewarded him for his efforts, and he quickly dropped the bucket to take up the bow once more.

Notching an arrow in place, Vall made to lean out over the wall to loose down onto the attackers, but was stopped when a charred and still smoking head loomed up over the top of the siege ladder. Vall tried to raise his bow to readiness, but the Formorian swatted it aside with one massive, misshapen fist. The blow was so powerful that Vall was slammed to the ground. He heard a whip-crack and felt something lacerate his face, burning a razor-thin cut into his flesh. When he opened his eyes he saw that the bowstring had snapped. Wondering at the irony of being wounded by his own weapon, he smiled faintly as he fought to gain his footing again. Sleepless days of endless fighting had ground his sanity to dust. As he stood on shaky feet, Vall found that he was laughing aloud.

"Die, human!"

The deep bass voice echoed behind him, and he turned just in time to see the lumbering giant swinging a club the size of a small tree stump. Vall couldn't stop laughing until he felt the impact in his right side; ribs cracked as the breath was knocked from his lungs. His feet left the ramparts as his body became airborne. Vall tried to twist his body in midair, his arms and legs flailing as he plummeted to the courtyard below. He bellowed in rage as he realized his chance at revenge would soon die with him.

He landed shoulder first on the hard-packed soil, the clang of his armor lost in the din of battle. He bounced once before coming to rest on his back. Unable to move, he stared up at the pale blue of the sky. The sounds of death began to fade and the pain ebbed away. Vall felt calm as his eyes tracked the flight of a bird far overhead. It was too high to be anything but a bird of prey, he felt sure of that. A hawk, perhaps? He knew they were common to this area. He wondered at the sensation of flight, at the freedom of being unfettered by the earth, as his vision slowly faded to black.

-----

Formorian attackers swept over the battlements, hacking and crushing the few defenders that still stood.

The siege had been broken.