Blog: Big Small Worlds
Owner: Padre
Author: padremack
Post: Flesh, Not Iron and Fire.
Somewhere underground, in the far north of Tilea. Very early Spring, 2405
Critch was beginning to think they had been forgotten about, as he had never served so long a watch previously. He and the others had been guarding this entrance for approaching twice the usual time. He could see Vroshkin was suffering too, for he had begun to twitch and mutter – not something Critch had witnessed before. Squinting his already aching eyes, he peered across to the other side where Volknek and Thrik stood, and could see that they too showed visible signs of flagging, the former’s eyes rolling most peculiarly and the latter with only one eye open, and that almost shut.
A thought occurred to him.
“Vrosh, are we being chastise-punished?” he asked.
“What for and why?” asked Vroshkin.
“I know not. But if not, then we have been forgotten.”
“Forgotten I say,” said Vroshkin. “We count for less than little these days. Now that Clan Skravell is reduced to but half a regiment with only one chieftain, what cause or reason has anyone to remember us?”
Critch could not help but growl at this thought.
“Then are we to stand here like idiot-fools until we drop?” he asked. “I say we leave, for if no-one remembers our presence then they will not notice our absence.”
Vroshkin twitched again. “Foolish folly. I will not leave. If we warriors of Skravell have become of so little worth as to slip our masters’ minds, then they will not baulk at kill-punishing us. No lash-whips or hunger-trials, just quick-death and forgotten entirely. We needs-must be useful to them. Obedient-eager, strong, ready to fight.”
Critch thought about this a while, grinding his teeth in frustration.
“Maybe so perhaps,” he finally agreed. “But now the new Seer-Lord commands, it would not be death for us, but manacle-slavery. For that is his way.”
During their long watch, several regiments of slaves had passed by, scuttle-marching southwards along the underpass. So many, in fact, that Critch had lost count. Although, he had not actually been trying to count, and was now so tired he would have struggled to remember if he had.
Suddenly he jolted, having almost fallen asleep on his feet, for the drum-sound of another marching body could be heard. Vroshkin had obviously heard it too, and both turned to look.
“What do you mean, ‘His way’?” asked Vroshkin.
“Lord Urlak used engines to threaten, to fight, to …”
“Not at Ravola!” interrupted Vroshkin.
“No, not there – but only because he could not move them fast-quick enough, and he keen-wanted to surprise the man-things. Otherwise and always, he used engines to spew warpfire upon the foe, and his bombards to scare-threaten whole armies. Iron and fire was his way, what good it did him.”
Almost none of Clan Skravell had returned from the march toward Remas, presumably the rest having died in either the fight or flight, as had Urlak. Which meant that Critch, Vroshkin and but a few hundred others were all who remained. What few sorry souls did creep back had carried news of the defeat and destruction of Urlak’s army – of exploding engines and the anti-climactic failure of the doom bombard.
“Seer-Lord Cralk has engines,” said Vroshkin. “I have seen them.”
“I know that! But hardly any, nothing like that which Lord Urlak possess-employed. Lord Cralk has only enough to sting and cajole, to herd and steer his enemies, to deliver them to his army’s sword blades.”
The first of the marchers now appeared – another regiment of slaves. A long, coloured rag served as a banner for them. It bore no emblem, and had no significance beyond as a marker for mustering. No slave felt pride for, or loyalty to, a banner. All they needed was eyes to see it, and thus to know where they should be if they wanted to avoid cruel punishments.
“I have yet to see warriors.” said Vroshkin. “More dreg-slaves is all I see.”
“Yes, and each and every one bears a blade. When there are so many and more the enemy is overwhelmed. What use is a man-thing’s sword-skill when buried beneath a horde-mass of slaves?”
Vroshkin sniggered at this, as both watched more and more of the slaves marching by.
Critch had heard that Seer-Lord Cralk had regiments of manthing slaves, but there had been none such in the tunnels today, only rats, by the hundreds. In truth, he had thought the claim somewhat fanciful, for although both manthings and goblins made acceptable labour slaves, expecting them to fight in the service of their masters would surrely be absurd.
This particular regiment bore swords and, although difficult to see to the right of them, carried shields too. Apparently, Lord Cralk was willing to pay that bit more to equip them. Critch could see shackle rings on their backs, through which chains could be passed, and yet, unlike the earlier regiments, this lot had no such chains. Perhaps they were somehow more trusted, more proven than the others? Which might explain why they had been given shields. This seemed unlikely, however, for he could think of no reason ever to trust slaves. Yet, he then also noticed the lack of overseers, neither sight nor sound of lashes. These slaves were marching to the beat of a drum, not the crack of whips!
“Odd and strange,” said Vroshkin. “They look keener and meaner than those who came before. If it were not for the shackle-rings you might not think them dreg-slaves at all. You could be right, Critch. Lord Cralk’s army is different-strange.”
Once the slaves had passed, the sound of their drum diminished to be replaced by the sound of another, this one sharper and far more insistent than that born by the slaves, and already growing louder than the other had achieved even when at its closest. Critch suspected he knew what was coming, and it was not more slaves.
“What’s this, now?” asked Vroshkin.
Critch said nothing, but watched in anticipation. He had heard that Seer-Lord Cralk possessed a bodyguard regiment consisting entirely of the tallest, strongest warriors in his army – warped by sky-stone to gain unnatural proportions and strength. From the sound of the drum, this had to be them.
“These are not slaves,” said Critch, just before the first ranks of the marching column appeared.
Clad in purple, and with a banner of the same hue at their head, its extending pennant fluttering audibly in the stiff breeze rushing through the underpass, these were indeed the bodyguard regiment.
They stood head and shoulders above the tallest warriors in Clan Skravell, and possessed far more than swords and shields. Their main arme blanche was a halberd, viciously hooked and barbed, with a curving, razor-sharp, cutting edge. They wore heavy, steel helmets and overlapping plates of the same enclosing their torsos. Along with tassets, vambraces, greaves, sabatons and spaulders, as well as chain mail additions – part-concealed by their heavy linen robes – they were sufficiently armoured to deflect perhaps most troublesome blows in battle, yet still agile enough to move quickly if necessary.
Vroshkin’s eyes widened. “They must have cost more than any war engine,” he declared.
“I never claim-said that Seer-Lord Cralk’s army was cheaper, only and merely different,” explained Critch.
Lord Urlak’s yellow clad bodyguard had consisted of ordinary warriors, who happened to have survived more battles than most, gaining experience of war. Whether this had made them more likely to fight or run was debatable. But these brute-warriors were clearly cut of a different cloth. Their sheer bulk, their strength, their heavy polearms and armour, would surely mean they fared better against any foe, which in turn must make them less likely to flee?
More and more passed by, the gravel crunching beneath their feet and their armour clanking loudly, and barely any so much as glanced towards the four Skravell guards. Those few who did seemed to look right through them, as if Critch and the others were not even there.
“Let’s hope we are commanded to stand behind them in the fight-battle,” said Vroshkin. “Then they can do the killing while we do the watching!”
Continue reading on the Big Small Worlds blog
Owner: Padre
Author: padremack
Post: Flesh, Not Iron and Fire.
Somewhere underground, in the far north of Tilea. Very early Spring, 2405
Critch was beginning to think they had been forgotten about, as he had never served so long a watch previously. He and the others had been guarding this entrance for approaching twice the usual time. He could see Vroshkin was suffering too, for he had begun to twitch and mutter – not something Critch had witnessed before. Squinting his already aching eyes, he peered across to the other side where Volknek and Thrik stood, and could see that they too showed visible signs of flagging, the former’s eyes rolling most peculiarly and the latter with only one eye open, and that almost shut.
A thought occurred to him.
“Vrosh, are we being chastise-punished?” he asked.
“What for and why?” asked Vroshkin.
“I know not. But if not, then we have been forgotten.”
“Forgotten I say,” said Vroshkin. “We count for less than little these days. Now that Clan Skravell is reduced to but half a regiment with only one chieftain, what cause or reason has anyone to remember us?”
Critch could not help but growl at this thought.
“Then are we to stand here like idiot-fools until we drop?” he asked. “I say we leave, for if no-one remembers our presence then they will not notice our absence.”
Vroshkin twitched again. “Foolish folly. I will not leave. If we warriors of Skravell have become of so little worth as to slip our masters’ minds, then they will not baulk at kill-punishing us. No lash-whips or hunger-trials, just quick-death and forgotten entirely. We needs-must be useful to them. Obedient-eager, strong, ready to fight.”
Critch thought about this a while, grinding his teeth in frustration.
“Maybe so perhaps,” he finally agreed. “But now the new Seer-Lord commands, it would not be death for us, but manacle-slavery. For that is his way.”
During their long watch, several regiments of slaves had passed by, scuttle-marching southwards along the underpass. So many, in fact, that Critch had lost count. Although, he had not actually been trying to count, and was now so tired he would have struggled to remember if he had.
Suddenly he jolted, having almost fallen asleep on his feet, for the drum-sound of another marching body could be heard. Vroshkin had obviously heard it too, and both turned to look.
“What do you mean, ‘His way’?” asked Vroshkin.
“Lord Urlak used engines to threaten, to fight, to …”
“Not at Ravola!” interrupted Vroshkin.
“No, not there – but only because he could not move them fast-quick enough, and he keen-wanted to surprise the man-things. Otherwise and always, he used engines to spew warpfire upon the foe, and his bombards to scare-threaten whole armies. Iron and fire was his way, what good it did him.”
Almost none of Clan Skravell had returned from the march toward Remas, presumably the rest having died in either the fight or flight, as had Urlak. Which meant that Critch, Vroshkin and but a few hundred others were all who remained. What few sorry souls did creep back had carried news of the defeat and destruction of Urlak’s army – of exploding engines and the anti-climactic failure of the doom bombard.
“Seer-Lord Cralk has engines,” said Vroshkin. “I have seen them.”
“I know that! But hardly any, nothing like that which Lord Urlak possess-employed. Lord Cralk has only enough to sting and cajole, to herd and steer his enemies, to deliver them to his army’s sword blades.”
The first of the marchers now appeared – another regiment of slaves. A long, coloured rag served as a banner for them. It bore no emblem, and had no significance beyond as a marker for mustering. No slave felt pride for, or loyalty to, a banner. All they needed was eyes to see it, and thus to know where they should be if they wanted to avoid cruel punishments.
“I have yet to see warriors.” said Vroshkin. “More dreg-slaves is all I see.”
“Yes, and each and every one bears a blade. When there are so many and more the enemy is overwhelmed. What use is a man-thing’s sword-skill when buried beneath a horde-mass of slaves?”
Vroshkin sniggered at this, as both watched more and more of the slaves marching by.
Critch had heard that Seer-Lord Cralk had regiments of manthing slaves, but there had been none such in the tunnels today, only rats, by the hundreds. In truth, he had thought the claim somewhat fanciful, for although both manthings and goblins made acceptable labour slaves, expecting them to fight in the service of their masters would surrely be absurd.
This particular regiment bore swords and, although difficult to see to the right of them, carried shields too. Apparently, Lord Cralk was willing to pay that bit more to equip them. Critch could see shackle rings on their backs, through which chains could be passed, and yet, unlike the earlier regiments, this lot had no such chains. Perhaps they were somehow more trusted, more proven than the others? Which might explain why they had been given shields. This seemed unlikely, however, for he could think of no reason ever to trust slaves. Yet, he then also noticed the lack of overseers, neither sight nor sound of lashes. These slaves were marching to the beat of a drum, not the crack of whips!
“Odd and strange,” said Vroshkin. “They look keener and meaner than those who came before. If it were not for the shackle-rings you might not think them dreg-slaves at all. You could be right, Critch. Lord Cralk’s army is different-strange.”
Once the slaves had passed, the sound of their drum diminished to be replaced by the sound of another, this one sharper and far more insistent than that born by the slaves, and already growing louder than the other had achieved even when at its closest. Critch suspected he knew what was coming, and it was not more slaves.
“What’s this, now?” asked Vroshkin.
Critch said nothing, but watched in anticipation. He had heard that Seer-Lord Cralk possessed a bodyguard regiment consisting entirely of the tallest, strongest warriors in his army – warped by sky-stone to gain unnatural proportions and strength. From the sound of the drum, this had to be them.
“These are not slaves,” said Critch, just before the first ranks of the marching column appeared.
Clad in purple, and with a banner of the same hue at their head, its extending pennant fluttering audibly in the stiff breeze rushing through the underpass, these were indeed the bodyguard regiment.
They stood head and shoulders above the tallest warriors in Clan Skravell, and possessed far more than swords and shields. Their main arme blanche was a halberd, viciously hooked and barbed, with a curving, razor-sharp, cutting edge. They wore heavy, steel helmets and overlapping plates of the same enclosing their torsos. Along with tassets, vambraces, greaves, sabatons and spaulders, as well as chain mail additions – part-concealed by their heavy linen robes – they were sufficiently armoured to deflect perhaps most troublesome blows in battle, yet still agile enough to move quickly if necessary.
Vroshkin’s eyes widened. “They must have cost more than any war engine,” he declared.
“I never claim-said that Seer-Lord Cralk’s army was cheaper, only and merely different,” explained Critch.
Lord Urlak’s yellow clad bodyguard had consisted of ordinary warriors, who happened to have survived more battles than most, gaining experience of war. Whether this had made them more likely to fight or run was debatable. But these brute-warriors were clearly cut of a different cloth. Their sheer bulk, their strength, their heavy polearms and armour, would surely mean they fared better against any foe, which in turn must make them less likely to flee?
More and more passed by, the gravel crunching beneath their feet and their armour clanking loudly, and barely any so much as glanced towards the four Skravell guards. Those few who did seemed to look right through them, as if Critch and the others were not even there.
“Let’s hope we are commanded to stand behind them in the fight-battle,” said Vroshkin. “Then they can do the killing while we do the watching!”
Continue reading on the Big Small Worlds blog
