Our Most Esteemed Trader – #Blog Battle – February

Medieval

The LifeGuard had completed another task. This one by those of Leopard Company, where questions of morals and ethics never arose. Other LifeGuard left them be to their own small rituals. Like their sergeants and those damn pocket book ledgers. God knew what they wrote in them after every mission. At least you hoped it was God. And it was just red ink.

 

Rituals are always based on accounts, which usually have at least a sliver of fact in the depths of the Origin.

 

It was said of Rachmoregin the first emperor of The Oakhostian he risked all, not for himself but for the causes of Unity and Stability of the turbulent lands. Expediency was the gold in his war chest. Many of all ranks were drawn by his constant energies.

 

Now in his most private of apartments, the morning spring sun doing nothing to raise his mood. Trepidation born of anguished regret heavy upon his shoulders.

In a corner shadowed from the light, a slight man dressed in modest garb sat studying the document. In a court complementary to Rachmoregin. Master Vermittler, Clerke Senior of Provisions, could be taken as a mere functionary doing the will of others. In fact Vermittler, was known for his quietly spoken response to many a challenge of gaining resources ‘Yes. I will attend to this,’

Respected for his renowned ability to navigate through the complex turbulent world of trade and supplies was this Master of Contracts and Obligations. Negotiator and Deliverer.

 

Rachmoregin recognised a man for a role, whatever position they currently held. Which was, despite his gnawing anxiety why he sat, patiently. Vermittler shared with him an eye for detail. It must be so, the Emperor reasoned for the man never failed to provide. And his fortitude was rewarded as Vermittler rolled up the document looking up with due and plain respect.

‘I understand how at the time this was judged Expedient My Emperor,’ he said shorn of reproach ‘Your adherence to it however will be ruinous. Default is not an option. Renegotiation is necessary,’

‘With these?’ Rachmoregin said gesturing into an apparently emptiness. He rarely sounded aghast.

Vermittler rose and stepped out of the shadows, only the eyes on his pale angular features indicated anything, widened with a thoughtful intensity, fixed upon somewhere beyond the confines of that room. When Vermittler spoke The Emperor felt the words’ meanings were being brought from those distances.

‘Contracts My Emperor are ever transitory things. Even the most secure forged to stand firm in a Court of Law is subject to whims. A turn of Nature laying waste a nation, or a war upending the society, even something as minor as a change of governance and the whole is swept away, sending the once illustrious wealthy, barefoot and in rags to seek scraps. Contracts are unavoidable, but those who build them should ever be aware the need to adapt. All is change My Emperor,’ he considered the rolled up document.

‘Yes, I will attend to this,’

 

Aldebray The Mage chaffed, while accepting such was hopeless. The Contract he had signed with this Vermittler, who would supply the rare substances Aldebray required, was quite specific about being willing to offer assistance. He had not expected this though. And yet the Court of Mages would find for the trader, reasoning would not do to upset the means of supplies.

‘Each action will literally cost me three years of my life,’ Aldebray protested.

‘Look upon it as a small payment, a possible investment for your peace of mind,’

‘How can Contact with These bring peace of mind?’

‘In Negotiations you may be a minor beneficiary,’

From anyone else but Vermittler that would certainly be bombastic insanity. This fellow though, there was a distance about him, which seemed to be outside of anything other than the base practicalities of trade.

Aldebray set to work, with words, symbols and artefacts; reaching out beyond The World Physical, to The realms of The Lords of The Lands, demonic Zerstorung, creatures feasting on strife and suffering.

 

The landscape was cloying night, illuminated by roiling flames, sounds of battle. Ranks of hunched soldiers, faces distorted into myriad feral shapes, eyes burning offset by slackened jaws marching off into the maw of conflict, herded by larger bestial creatures wielding barbed whips a’fire.

Some yelled obscene threats at Vermittler. He did not pay heed, all emptiness.

Standing ahead a figure, cowled and burdened with meaningless decorations, a staff of bones held in a clawed hand, features mostly covered, save for a mouth curled in hate.

‘What brings you fool?’ hissed the voice, so filled with loathing it rose above the other clamours.

Vermittler said nothing, he merely produced the Contract, a bitter laugh chittered forth from the being.

‘You come to bargain?’ it mocked.

‘Negotiate,’ came the reply, sure and steady ‘For mutual benefit. Your Master has failed to appreciate this binding is ruinous to them to. They ask for quantity not quality. A poor investment in the future,’

The figure recoiled at his detached judgment, turned its back, muttering in growls, spits and shrieks. Vermittler assumed it was speaking to its masters. Vermittler felt he might have more independence, of a sort, anyhow.

There came the expected rejection, full of anger, hate and distain. Vermittler did not respond with words, only pondering what came as judgement from the Zerstroung lord and what was originating from this representative. He doubted if the demonic creatures would know either, after all there was a mutual incomprehension in what were but two races.

Whether lord or servant gave the command Vermittler was not sure, but three muscle warped things rushed at him, intent on harm.

They passed through him causing no more distress that a sudden fetid summer wind out town’s open drains. They blundered to a confused halt; the creature servant shrieked, whether in frustration or in its Lord displeasure Vermittler could not say.

‘Tell your master this. I have not travelled here in the physical. I was allotted this spectral ability by but a simple human mage. Humanity is adapting to the Ethereal elements and events which brought you to their home world, working with The Ethereal or taking advantage of opportunities arising. The gathering of the souls of all the dead from Rachmoregin’s wars in exchange for vigour supplied to him is wearing thin. The harvest is poorer by the season. These ranks will not suit your lord’s wars and Rachmoregin is fading, others will take his place, using innate cunning and intelligence; they will not need this contract. This will not happen soon, but soon enough. Then in Rachmoregin’s demise this contract will be revealed, and there will be resolve to turn against it, in some part by religion, but in other part by Human’s knack for weaponry. In time there will be machines and devices which will lay waste these lands, a fearful reckoning,’

The servant screamed denial, shook the staff at Vermittler, energies flew at him, his only reaction was to blink, then reply.

‘Tell your masters I wish to re-negotiate. I cannot guarantee them survival, but I can extend their tenure on this world long enough for them to explore other means,’

There followed more screaming, howling and general noise, all of which Vermittler took to be threats. As he did not respond to these there were more physical attempts, all of which flew past or through him. He reflected that he would truly have to ensure Aldebray was recompensed for the reduction in the mage’s life expectancy.

Once the expected storms of outrage had passed, there came what passed for negotiation, involving more unpleasant sounds, and he noted more distress on the behalf of the servant. Vermittler continued to press his case. Instead of these wretched unfortunates swept from the battlefield he would arrange for better quality, those who lived for and off war, the ones who relished others’ sufferings, for they too were not immune to Death’s gaze. There was the obvious objection that they were here already. He countered that they were hiding in the ranks of the others, but with this arrangement they would be open to the more special treatment and melded to suit purpose. For it was obvious wars with other demonic lords were of great importance, and an opportunity to have quality folk whose being exists for the urge to kill should not be passed over.

He pressed on. Did not waver. Continued with the theme that Humanity was enduring and could never truly be subsumed by these methods, if at all. Eventually his casual persistence won the day.

‘How will you do this?’ hissed the servant.

‘To begin with, you will come with me. You will sift through those who die upon the battlefield and send only the truly worthy here,’

‘Worthy’ was the important word to sell to the lord here. All creatures had vanity.

And he sensed the change in the servant’s stance. He had the fellow, with that one swift move. Now they would an additional factor in the tying up.

There was more noise, but when he glanced down the wording of the Contract had changed.

‘Our business here is concluded,’ he said ‘You come with me,’

‘But the new dead for my Lord?’ there was near plaintiveness.

‘Tell him I will attend to this,’

As Vermittler expected his way back was not barred and his new servant followed him.

 

‘Was I away long?’ he asked Aldebray on return.

‘I have waited two days and one night. Who is this?’ the mage asked gestured to the hunched figure, now in rags.

‘Yes. Who are you?’ Vermittler asked ‘I quite overlooked that matter,’

A human face ravaged by torment peered out, the voice now a cracked broken thing.

‘I have forgotten,’ it said, miserably

‘Hmm. I shall name you Sorrow,’

‘As you wish,’ the fellow said with head bowed.

‘I declare Vermittler,’ tartly said the mage ‘You are showing celestial aspirations. Are you about to re-name me?’

Vermittler looked upon him with some pity.

‘I don’t think it necessary. Examine again the codicil of our contract. I am now your sole employer,’

‘How?’

‘Ask not,’

Aldebray for the next three days and nights tried to go his own way. He could only follow The Merchant.

 

With scroll Vermittler knelt before Emperor Rachmoregin.

‘I can confirm this contract is now revised and binding My Emperor,’

Rachmoregin read the contents and sighed as he concluded.

‘I felt a weight lift from my being Master Vermittler, yet I must ask can we be sure these creatures will adhere?’

‘You must forgive me this one judgement My Emperor. The original business was badly constructed. These we call demonic folk have little true understanding of the complexities they ensnare themselves into when dealing with Humans,’ he made a casual gesture ‘This intelligence I have garnered from various of those wise and cautious in this field. Daemonics are trapped by this revision,’

‘Can we make good our side?’

‘I have two in my employ who are versed in the subtleties of how to implant the process,’

From once Emperor Rachmoregin discerned a slight humorous twitch of the mouth.

‘It will by folk lore and tradition. Those used to killing ensuring the more deserving cases of the fate are transported,’

Rachmoregin looked puzzled.

‘Will this run consistently?’

‘There are exigencies My Emperor best not discussed,’

 

In a time centuries hence, in a place remote.

‘I have collected this days ashes Sage Aldebray,’

‘Thank you Friend Sorrow,’ he looked at the gathered greying pile ‘Somehow the work never grows dull. A fortunate state in our Immortality,’

‘Aye,’ over the years Sorrow had become less ravaged, straighter.

As was often, they looked as one towards the room, wherein sat their Master Vermittler. Solitary. Remote.

As he had explained to them. He had accepted the payment of his soul as cost for being one knowing Merchant for Unknowing Humanity’s varied enterprises. Ever balancing costs against benefits. No place for a soul.   

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When or Not To. That Is THE Question? November #BlogBattle-Cultivate

Beards

The smallish nation of Unbedeutend located on one side by the bend of the vast river Gewaltig and cossetted on the other by the Zackig mountain range was thus left alone. That was how it had been for three centuries.

However, King Lastig not one to leave well alone. After five years’ tenure of not doing much he decided Unbedeutend needed an image as well, something which would make the men of Unbedeutend stand apart. Lacking a constructive imagination, he pondered another two years then one day an ambassador dispatched from a neighbouring nation for annoying his own king hoping to do something with his miserable lot remarked on the fine impression Lastig’s full beard and moustaches made.

Lastig took this to heart and a spark was set aflame. Unbedeutend would be the home of that most socially acceptable display of masculinity, luxurious and well-maintained facial hair. He voiced this opinion several times and his court who had its fair share of facially hairy men were much pleased, those not so took the hint and within some seventy days not a chin or upper lip was  perceived, on the males that is. Naturally this ceased to be a fashion and more of a friendly suggestion with elements of an edict.

And so many clean-shaven males of Unbedeutend commenced to cultivate facial hair. Those wishing to maintain or obtain status ensured their efforts were maintained to a high standard. ‘Straggly’ becoming a word certain to doom a fellow to mockery or ostracisation. Over the next three years barbers obtained sufficient importance to elevate their once humble Barber’s Guild to The Learned Advocacy of Master Coiffeurs and began to invent all sorts of rules and regulations, obtaining seats of local councils and so forths.

Lastig was very pleased he had set his nation on a path to Status. For did not much facial hair mean masculinity?

His folk along the Zackig mountains thought so, and consequently folk from other three kingdoms who resided along the mountain borders with Unbedeutend had to confront a frequency of by swaggering males displaying their beards, at close range. Concerns were raised by said border communities this could escalate. The kings and their lords thought reacting to Threat By Beard would be seen as excitable and thus did nothing, except look with some suspicion at some of their own fulsomely facially haired men about court. After a while other local matters took their attention and sense prevailed. Unbedeutend, who cared? Aside from peasants on the borders, so what.

In Unbedeutend males continued to emulate their king. Although some in various positions of authority or wishing to be thus looked upon others with facial jealousy and unable to keep pace suggested these others were trying to exceed the king in stature. The consequences were varied and because no one wanted to disturb the king’s joviality very restrained, merely muted as innocent officials on the rise, gently fell from grace, or lesser also innocent folk seeking to rise in court were modestly ostracised back to their estates. It was all very civilised.

Queen Fellyone and the ladies of her court, circle and salon could not, of course, become involved, so they concentrated on flower arranging, which was very socially astute as peasants would not have time or resources to do likewise. Not so with men.

Out amongst the common folk and those elevated, but not invited to Court. matters evolved as the cultivation continued. Those of meticulous and reflective mien grew narrower styles, thus enabling them to finger the hair thoughtfully while saying ‘So’ or ‘Ah’ or a long drawn out ‘Yesssss,’. Some tolerated as outgoing and outrageous indulged in slightly untidy appearances, while military folks’ efforts were by length and width measured according to rank.  Religious fellows attended to the matter according to personal conscience. Books on how to conduct neat and respectable ways of eating proliferated, though those who had long cultivated facial hair felt somewhat insulted by the latter move. An indicator of social pressures which the king’s advisors’ advisors should have taken note of.

There were however other pressing issues, the one most close to Lastig’s heart being his only son and thus heir Prince Gravierend, unlike his father serious and reflective also not prone either socially or worse physically to displays of facial hair. He was capable at arms and took an interest in military matters, so no one was inclined to jest with him at not joining the era of beards, nonetheless an embarrassment to his father and as some courtiers suggested a possible focus of discontent. The solution was relatively simple. The neighbouring southern nation of Beunruhigt was now suffering from a few ill-disciplined barons. Gravierend, was only too glad to go with a volunteer retinue of sober and able fellows, who began to shave as soon as they crossed over the border.

For administrative purposes Lastig’s nephew Earl Schleichen was made nominal Prince of the Office, in order that someone be princely for all the required ceremonial duties of the said rank. Schleichen had for some time been maneuvering to get A Position. He was aided by others who thought they could control him and with him shared a dislike of Gravierend who they thought merely affected his serious disposition. Wars it had been agreed were serious things and who knew what might happen to a young prince. Lastig distracted by various issues relating to beards did not notice.

At least half of the court should have anticipated the first problem would come from The Church and within the Church. To begin with the issues were minor. The most boring and to be avoided priests and bishops got into tussles over the theological implications of long or short beards. In rural areas congregations found over enthusiastic priests indulged in hair to the extent their sermons were quite incoherent coming from behind what appeared to be small bushes. This led to neighbouring priests who had issues with the excessively hairy associate to suggest an excess of hair was all vanity, some even began, with congregational support, to shave. This allowed wives and mothers weary of shedding of hair, unpleasant sights at meals and discomfort at times once tender and intimate to lend support, and everything became schismatic.

The disruption spread to more urban areas and in the tide those men who had long nurtured facial hair and were expert in its management were wont to voice distain at less expert fellows and the disrepute they were bringing upon the art.

Vocal disputes became more frenetic and louder, thus hair was tugged, which accelerated and riotous behaviour became common, bordering of Unrest. Lastig, like most folk of genial dispositions when thwarted and deprived of uncomplicated options lost his temper and became dyspeptic.

To begin with he commanded his lords to stop the violence, without telling them how, and demanded his government to issue edicts and laws. As each official had been told personally each went away with different ideas. The results were rather obvious, the lords had opted for the simplest solution; Hit People, as the lords were the ones with the soldiers, so things simmered down; except that the lords now thought themselves rulers in their own realms claiming they ‘understood’ the local situation; which most of them didn’t. The Church weighed in with a bewildering number of contradictory opinions thus even the schisms had schisms. The most extreme example being ‘The Sisterhood of The Equal Hair’, a group of women who partook of secret potions which encouraged facial hair growth; whether this started out as a religious, political or satirically ironic movement was lost in the confusion of the times, needless to say the results were unsettling.

Lastig now started to make very uncomplimentary and ungenerous remarks to folk in his court, mostly to do with their competency, although peppered with barded observations on their own beards. He said he would sort it all out and locked himself away in a room wherein he worked for five days and nights drafting The Royal Decree of Stability. When it was produced no one understood anything of its nature, while Lastig seemed to be unable to offer any coherent clarifications. In later years in Universities Professors of Politics, Philosophies and Rhetoric would offer up this work up as the prime example of why drafting without ideas was a bad approach, some radical and naturally covert institutions used it as a reason why kings should never be involved in formulation of law.

Even so Lastig insisted upon its application, the first, to profit were lawyers, the second being Schleichen. It was noted that whereas Lastig began to display evidence of Straggliness, Schleichen’s beard was more luxurious and maintained, thus even though he was growing more obnoxious he felt confident enough to drop the ‘of the Office’ part of his title and experiment with passing his own edicts, all to do with the accumulation of his own authority and wealth. Such was the chaos very folk noticed.

Elsewhere, actually in Beunruhigt, King Travach was grateful for Gravierend’s efforts, the surviving ill-disciplined barons were wishing they had not listened to their deceased associates. Surviving assassins sent curt letters of resignations to those in Unbedeutend who had sent them.  Also daughter of Travach, Princess Leilanna (The Studious) and Gravierend had formed an attachment. As there was no more ill-discipline in the realm he escorted her to visit her favourite widowed aunt whose border lands were in the shadow of the Zackig Mountains. It was there the pair and their loyal retinues encountered a large but furtive band of ruffians and men of the Zackig mountains on the Unbedeutend side, seemingly engaged in transporting large sacks. The encounter from the viewpoint of the disreputable groups was not a profitable one and the survivors were ordered to hand over the contents of the sacks.

Human hair.

On severe and persistent questioning there were general confessions the hair was for the manufacture of false beards, of which there was a flourishing market in Unbedeutend. Gravierend with Leilanna at his side and retinues following was swift to ride back home and demand explanations. The first folk of rank he encountered, were found with large amounts of unexplainable gold, they tried to protest and bluster, in doing so raised other suspicions and were found with false beards.

Gravierend raised the matter at court, as he had a battle hardened retinue no one tried to stop him, in fact several arranged to be elsewhere. Naturally a scandal broke involving nobles, bishops, some merchants and The Learned Advocacy of Master Coiffeurs, more unexplainable gold and false beards were revealed. Prince Schleichen was involved, was forced to flee the kingdom, those of his family who could, disowned him. Lustig suffered a collapse, pulled his hair out and retired to an undisclosed remote tower, Queen Fellyone repaired unto a spa town five hundred miles south west and stayed there, for her health, Gravierend, with some fatalistic reluctance took the throne, married Leilanna, spent a year knocking heads together, putting down inept rebellions, placing unexplainable and confiscated wealth into civil and civic projects for the good of the ordinary folk and drafting the following edict.

‘Beards. I could not care less,’

Most folk got the message, there was much rejoicing and men who had had beards most of their adult life felt dignity and sanity was being cultivated again. ‘The Sisterhood of The Equal Hair’ under the stern examination of Queen Leilanna, confessed that the whole thing had indeed been an ironic jest and were glad it was all over.

And those who wished to, shaved happily ever after.

More Than Faith October #BlogBattle-Dream

Dream Scape (2)

The sun began setting behind a drift of rain, the walls of Parledach took on the now familiar image of a beast hunched, deadly being cornered in the hunt. The light from the constant flames of damage within and without adding to the ominous threats both hunters and hunted presented. Hunkered in the trenches the hounds of that hunt waited for the next order; soldiers of disparate regions and abilities all at the Imperial behest to bring down this creature of rebellion. Another assault under the cloak of night, accepting the stumbling over ravaged ground, with the hidden traps, for the gift of darkness’ cover, and no problem with direction, you could hardly miss looming town walls.

One section of trench was comparatively tidy as the troopers of LifeGuard engineers industriously checked equipment, in particular the powerful petards to be set against the iron and wood gate, a location they had been patiently digging to, thus lessening the distance.

The smaller figure sat upon a pile of wood methodically storing and securing equipment designed to repair the tools of injury and demolition. Twenty two days she had been here. Part of another of the elite LifeGuard’s contributions, a medical half company. Mostly obliged to care for the injured or sickening lords and senior officers. Ten days ago, she and another medician had been sent to supply emergency aid to the engineers who needed and deserved it. Yesterday Medician Quedir had slipped and died on a discarded blade at an odd angle. It surprised unbloodied folk how many died of accidents on battlefields. Medician Beritt hoped the quota of ill-luck was used up. It had been a bad five days; six dead and three incapacitated was a heavy price on a company starting at fifty and already depleted by an earlier eleven. That’s why she and Quedir had been sent, try and repair minor injuries and turn them back into the fight, show that The Command cared. Quedir’s death had hit hard, it smelt of ill-luck, like smoke and fumes it drained and choked even engineers who lived in the jagged and sudden places.

The captain whose features spoke to her of badly maintained road shambled over to her. He tried a grateful smile, instead the actioned reminded her of the rictus of dying. Being a medician gave you perception.

‘As always, your presence in the attack will be appreciated medician,’ she reckoned he was going to say more but the words appeared stuck, she tried to help them on.

‘Jus’ doin’ mah required duties Cap’n,’ she laid on her sudd-hengestatian accent thick, the general opinion was her folk were nascent roguish clowns, but leather tough and unflappable. She played to the crowd keeping her own feeling tight within. Good for morale? Had the rictus smoothed out?

‘Well you try and be careful medician,’ Scraith but this siege was a bad one ‘We need you,’ And frib’ ,Was he pleading now?

Quick glances up and down the line. She could see pity, concern and some disgust; soldiers knowing their captain was losing whatever captains were supposed to have.

The rain picked up, pushed on by the sudden arrival of a chill wind. Never trust Spring, her farming pa used to say.

‘Breakfast in a sewer,’ groaned a trooper engineer ‘This weather is gonna turn five hundred yards into three miles. Hold my hand Stitches,’ he said to Beritt dredging up some humour. ‘I’m nervous,’

‘Trex,’ she growled ‘Ah’m not touching anything of yours without gauntlets on,’

Laughter skittered about. Thus, pair bantered back and forth, sharing a sudden burden to keep morale steady.

These heroic efforts were to fade as the night settled in and the support ordinance began to call out its arrival, pounding walls and beyond.

‘They’re on target tonight,’ someone said in grim relief, promptly followed by the roar of an explosion further up the right, and a trembling along the trench; screams and curses followed. Then the fearful judgement they all hated ‘Shortfall’

‘That bitty scratching won’t help Stitches,’ Trex said with true sympathy, and Beritt realised she had been clawing at the trench wall. ‘We all do it,’ he added.

‘Prepare’ the captain called out, his voice, quite steady but a sudden illumination displayed the creeping fear.

‘Scraith. They’ve got a whych up there,’

Beritt in a detached way fear brought put the commentator from the south and east of the empire where such terms were used for those who dabbled in the Ethereal. This one was for lighting up places making stark the ground before them bright with a metallic sharpness. A heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, she turned to the stone faced sergeant, the last one of his rank.

‘Don’t forget Medician. Stay back in the rush. That’s where your work will be,’

‘I know sarge’, ‘she said, wondering why he’d felt the need to say that, she’d scrambled out of the trench three times since her arrival attending to and dragging back the injured who had a chance.

‘Ready engineers,’ called out the captain, the word ‘forward’ trembling on his lips.

The sergeant stood up, looked to the ground ahead and said above all the roar, and with all due respect.

‘Captain. You can go and scraith yourself,’ and with that drove his combat knife efficiently into his own neck, as he fell, the blood showering over Beritt’s boots.

The company survivors looked down at the body, Beritt in the grip of her training checking he was indeed dead.

‘Damn,’ said Trex ‘That’s a shame. Poor ol’ Sarge Ferred,’

‘Just lost his step on the road. That’s all,’ one Beritt knew just as ‘Cheerful Chye’ spoke in his usual fatalistic way. ‘One charge too many,’

The Captain, tears beginning to trickle, nonetheless scrambled out of the trench.

‘C’mon,’ he cried hoarsely ‘I’m not letting Ferred be remembered just for this. He was there for us every other time. C’mon,’ this time the command came as a visceral roar, and not looking back he was off.

Trex huffed, Chye wiped his nose on his sleeve and they were off, the rest following. Beritt closed Ferred’s eyes and placed his cap over his face and obeyed his last order.

 

To either side of her, there were lines, columns and clumps of men hurling themselves to the walls; distractions she reckoned, for that fellow with the lights was swinging his attention in all directions, panicked, she felt. Two engineers were down, wounds sufficient for her know that was it. Another clutched his leg, bone protruding. She slipped alongside, the swearing fellow, pushed a bottle of her own mix into his mouth and while he drunk she set a crude splint on his leg.

‘What the scraith was that Stitches,’ he gasped at the liquid burnt down his throat.

‘Make you forget the pain. Y’all crawl back now,’ she said and was in pursuit of the rest. Another was seated on a mound, holding his left arm by a thread and saying ‘Oh dear. Oh dear,’ over and over in a slightly distressed way. Beritt unhunched up to him, consoled him, into having another of her mixes to drink, snipped through last threads of flesh, gave him the arm to hold, while she slapped some ‘goop’ on the wound to staunch the blood.

‘Now trooper y’all get your backside back to LifeGuard Command. Hear?’

‘Will do Stitches. Oh dear. Oh dear,’

 

Beritt sloshed and slipped on, the force of a nearby detonation hurling her into the cover of an upturned cart. Troopers were catching breath and whatever sanctuary they could. Trex was snarling, lifting up the heavy barreled falconade, an Ethereally powered device, aiming at the fellow on the walls. A dulled red bolt of energy hissed forth, catching the target, pitching him back, screaming and burning. Trex howled in high-pitched unhinged glee, jumping up and down, heedless of the danger.

‘Yeah! Gotcha you braxer! Weren’t ready for that uh?’

Beritt tugged at his belt to get him into cover, he lashed at her, told her she was a bitty girl and stick to stitching folks up. In response she kneed him in the groin, as he bent double her fist struck him in the jaw, sending him into the wagon. Whereupon she jumped on his chest and shaking him.

‘Y’all keep tha’ damn stupid head down, knuckle brain. T’otherwise Ah’ll kick yore delicates over tha’ wall!’

And was gone towards the next injury.

Trex blinked, puzzled.

‘Was that Stitches who pounded me?’

‘You did have it coming,’ Chye observed.

Beritt was curtailing a bleeding arm when a group reached the gate. Five of them two hold up wooden cover while the Captain supervised the fixing of the explosives, missiles and rubble either deliberate or by detention falling about the party. The remainder of the company unleashed aimed missile contributions. A battle against circumstance and chance taking place. You could not expect luck to hold in that storm of Humanity’s cursed doing.

One of the shield bearers was caught in the wash of some incendiary, thus turning to a threshing thing.

A chorus of oaths and two troopers were out dashing to assist; Beritt in their wake, eyes fixed on the victim, who in his pain had knocked into the another working at the charge. Beritt lighter and used to sprinting to suffering, gauntleted reached the growing crisis first, snatched the burning man, with heels dug in pulled him away, throwing him to the ground, leaving everyone else to whatever was necessary, burning fleshing assailing her nose, screams into her ears. Knife drawn she plunged it into the man’s throat, the screams turning to a gurgle, and finally a sigh. She looked up, no one questioned her releasing the fellow and stemming his panic. Anyway, they were busy.

‘Charges set ready,’ came the practiced call.

‘Charges ignited,’ the second.

‘Retire,’ the captain commanded.

At this the cover was dropped and the men turned to run.

Beritt did not know the whys and hows, but the charges seemed to explode too early, throwing everyone to their faces into the filth. Although winded she managed to get to her feet, squinting into the smoke and flame she looked for injuries.

‘Scraith. We done it,’ that was Trex, then hoarse and scared ‘Where The Cap’n?’

Beritt was already crawling to the latest body.

‘He’s down,’ she yelled, swearing on reaching him, some piece of debris flung by the explosion had sliced open his midriff, she supposed he had been looking back to check the effects. Not a place to conduct anything medical she began to haul him back, fortunate he was unconscious, others reached her and between them they got him into the trench, where she worked to cover the injury, keep the filth out and innards in. There was a lot of talk and shouting going on, nothing to do with her. His eyes flickered open, and she forced open his mouth to administer the last of her mixes, he proffered thanks, as she continued.

‘Keep me alive until we are relieved,’ he hissed ‘Someone has to give orders,’

In their trench, now forgotten as soldiers tore at the gap and fought into the town, the engineers waited, as ordered by their dying captain, the medician keeping his pain bearable and innards secured.

An officer arrived, gaunt and as bloodied as they were.

‘Engineers. Your task his done retire to LifeGuard Command,’

The man knelt by his fellow officer, words were exchanged, the captain died.

The medician punched the side of the trench.

‘Lieutenant sir?’ she asked, ‘Did you see two troopers making their ways back,’

‘One crawling and one who had lost his arm?’

‘Yes sir,’

‘I am afraid I saw their bodies,’

‘Scraith! Damn to fifth hell!’

‘You did your best medician. You couldn’t be expected to save folk with such wounds. Not here,’

Lined and dirty face, her lips twisted into what expression the officer could not make out.

‘A girl can dream sir,’

And a girl would dream. 

Tonight.

The wrong sorts.