• Graded • I. Dogs

[Kasoria]

15th Trial, Saun, Arc 696
On the Road to Rhakros
14th break

He was twenty-three arcs in the world, and fending off the wolves on behalf of his betters.

THUNK

"FUCKING SHIT!"

When he could get close enough, anyway.

In less time than it took to blink, Andre's throat went from... well, intact, to pierced by an arrow nearly as long a Kasoria's arm. The young man gawped stupidly, survival instincts misfiring for a trill as he watched his partner on the wagon stagger, cough up blood, reach up and actually grab the fucking thing.

Trying to pull it out. But all he was doing was tearing deeper, wider, ripping more flesh as he sunk down-

Down!

Kasoria dropped to his belly as a fresh, ragged volley of arrows whistled and snapped through the air. There were screams and a smattering of cracks, like stones slamming into wood. But even as he lay there, dust and dirt choking him, he could notice less howls of pain than before. Orders were being bellowed into the humid air, shouted by rough voices used to command. Higher, shriller cries were smothered by them, and he started to rise to his feet.

He was charged with protecting the caravan. He had to do his-

"Get the fuck back down here, you fucking twat!"

-then a hand like a vice gripped his leg and sent him slamming back down into the cracked earth. Kasoria coughed and scowled over his shoulder at a craggy, stubbly face that was utterly unimpressed. Clad in leather armor and a hat better suited to protect from the suns than the efforts of archers, the man was hunkered down under the wagon of beer and wine they'd been riding on. He'd been on the back, though. Andres and him had been up front and-

"Andres!" He looked back at the writhing, moaning figure just a few feet away. "Help me get-"

"Don't be stupid! That's what they want-"

The man yanked and Kasoria cursed whatever gods may have been for making him so damned fucking small. Three arcs in the Black Guard Academy had left him with a body most young men would envy, and skills to match their vigor (not to mention his own predilection for violence)... but they didn't add any inches to him. He cursed the man even as he was pulled halfway under the cart, opening his mouth-

FUNF FUNF

Two arrows smacked into the ground he was have been in, had he kept going. The man had saved him. He blinked and realized that truth, that cold and annoying fact. The Andre moaned again and the spell was broken.

"They're gettin' us to run out and help," the hiding man said, sounding more annoyed than frightened, a calm, sour storm in a maelstrom of ambushing chaos. "Kill a few, sure, but woundin' 'em? Even better. Maybe some other dumb, goodhearted cunts go out and try and help. More targets for them."

Kasoria didn't much mind being called a cunt by anyone, but he had sense enough to keep his offence in the back of his mind for the moment. He could see down the length of the caravan, now stalled and shuddering with death and frantic movement. Mostly just... feet, really. Animal and men, but other faces down there, too. Hiding under the wagons and carts and carriages, scores of humans deciding discretion beat trying to be a hero with a hail of arrows falling on them.

The first-time caravan guard scowled again and wriggled around. Trying to get a look at the treeline where the arrows were coming from. All he could see were flashes of movement, snippets of figures using the woods as cover. Whatever nation had first established the road to Rhakros (Kasoria was inclined to think it was his own) had also leveled a clearing on both sides of it, maybe a hundred feet of clear grass and scrub. Probably to make it easier to see wild animals or bandits trying to sneak up on them.

And now it's leaving us with no cover, he thought bitterly, flinching instinctively as a new rain of long, sharp objects crashed into them. Barely any cries that time. Everyone had got the hint. For long trills, he waited there. Hunkered down, breathing more dust and sweat than air. The man next to him was doing much the same, face set and grim. Watching. Listening. Smelling.

Fresh blood. Feces. Cries for help, for the gods, for mother, for vengeance and for just simple water. More orders being shouted, but now they'd tapered off. Kasoria could feel the shock of the ambush wearing off. They were bloodied but not broken. The guards for the caravan had lost men, but they'd got to cover, stayed put, waited...

The last volley of arrows gained nothing. No cries, no shrieks. Just a rain of pointy wood smacking into dust and wagons.

"Right," the man next to him said, wiping his face and awkwardly drawing a sword with his other hand. "Now they'll have to come in close. Finish us properly."

"W-Won't they j-just keep shooting at us until-"

"Danny?! Get your fucking cunts working for a fucking living!"

Brossa's vulgarity answered Kasoria's question before the other man could. There was scuttling unseen around them, up and down the caravan, and the twang of crossbows being fired soon echoed its length. Kasoria could tell the difference. It was a deeper, bass sound. Speaking of all the mechanical force packed into the string and pulley system. A bolt a third the size of these arrows would fly with more than twice the force, piercing chain mail and even plate.

He doubted the bandits had either. And even as he listened, he heard fresh screams. Not from their ranks, either.

"No," the other man said, wiping his face again, with his hat this time. "Danny and his lads take fuckin' forever, but they're good at what they do. They'll have t'swamo us. Charge the ground. Overwhelm us."

"I... You think they have-have the numbers to-"

His words stopped as he heard the roar. First one voice. Then a dozen throats joined it. Then a dozen more. By the time Kasoria had craned his head up and back, staring at the treeline across that bare hundred feet of grass, it seemed like there were a hundred screaming savages in those woods. Hidden by the trees but no longer, for as the man next to him started to move-

Men and some women exploded out from cover. Pelting towards them with axes and swords and spears and halberds and daggers and shields and all of them shouting, screaming, cursing, swearing death and revenge and thanking the deities of plunder and profit and blood all at once. Kasoria was lost in the sight of it, this horde pouring out from the shadows into the searing light of day, and the man next to him was suddenly above him... and hauling him about again.

"A'right, mate," he said, with that same tone of faint annoyance, keeping a hand pressed to Kasoria's chest, both of them still somewhat hidden bt the wagon. The man peered over it and Kasoria knew he could remember his bloody name. Eventually. "Don't rush the fuckers. Archers back there'll be waiting for one more volley, if they can. But once their mates get too close, they'll be done. Then it's up to us."

Kasoria swallowed hard and felt the trembling in his feet. He swiftly realized it wasn't him; it was the footfalls of a hundred madmen and monsters and reavers and pillagers and all the filth of the wild-lands between two great cities. For a dozen trials they'd been safe, trundling along the road, heading for the distant city of Rhakros... or at least to the border, where apparently a fresh company would take care of the escort. Kasoria hadn't paid much attention to that part. He simply wanted coin and to get out the city for a while, go on an adventure.

He blinked and saw a man with ash-filled scars roaring at him with a mouth of bronze teeth, swinging an ax around his head. Next to him was a woman with two daggers, scalps tied around her waist slapping her bare thighs. Just the closest and most visible of a hundred horrors, all rushing headlong into crossbow fire and the readying ranks of the caravan guards, as if they were a light squall and long grass respectively.

"Close enough," was all the man said, stepping out into the suns and tossing him sword from one hand, then back, then flourishing... and his whole body seemed to settle into a ready stance. Kasoria couldn't help but feel reassured by the sight, and like magic, his gladius was in his own hand, too. "Time to be sellswords."

Kasoria opened his mouth to tell the man he'd said that's not what they were. But he was already moving into the breach, moving away, and Kasoria knew he'd best stick next to the man.

His name was Elbert.

[Kasoria]

"We're not mercenaries, we're not sellswords, so get that right out of your bloody head."

The younger man was a little deflated to hear that. After all, "sellsword" had... quite a romantic cache to it, no? Rugged, hardy, swashbuckling and independent men. Living by their wits and their peerless skill at arms. Fighting bandits and war bands and monsters... for the right price. Because this was Etzos, after all. When it came to defending the great city, a man was not expected to think (solely) of pay. He was meant to do his damn civic duty and lay down his life. But everything else?

It was about the fattest purse. That meant you got paid.

"That's what we are, though. Paid to fight."

"Aye, well, not really, kid."

Elbert was a salty one, and Kasoria knew that after only ten bits sitting next to the man. There was little else to do under the shade of the tree other than talk and drink and check the supplies you'd already packed. His pack was secure, his weapons were ready, and that left getting to know the other stoic men accompanying the mess of lumbering wagons scattered before them.

It was a field, south of the Outer Perimeter. For now shadowed by the sheer, gross bulk of Etzos, towering above them all like a mountain fashioned by human hands. Kasoria tore his eyes from the endless buildings pitting the ancient rock, and drew it back to the wagons. Carriages, too. Most of them covered, with blankets and sheets fastened across their cargo. It was a long way to the southern border, and all manner of wear and weather could assault the goods they were transporting. Not to mention the travelers in their wagons, banding together to afford guides and transport and, of course, mercenaries.

"Guards," Elbert said, sucking at his pipe and correcting a statement not made. "That's what we are. Like sheep dogs. They're the flock. All we need to do is keep them moving in the same direction, and all together. Scare off any jackals that come sniffing around. Comes to it, sure, we fight. But honestly? We're to be seen, lad. We're a... wadayacallit..."

"Deterrent?"

"Fuck me," chimed in another, younger voice. Almost Kasoria's age, belonging to a ruddy face that peered around the tree trunk. "Someone was paying attention in school. Shite, someone actually went to school."

Andres chortled heartily to himself, noise spreading around the other men assembled like an infection. There were two or three dozen of them, as far as Kasoria could tell. All men he could see were armed, and obviously so. But the way they walked and carried themselves... there was a swagger there, a surety of purpose, that told him they were men used to making their way through life with force. He'd come to recognize that look over the last three years. Skill and knowledge weren't enough; it was the [ib]presentation[/b] that mattered. The impression of sudden, savage violence, unleashed whenever they willed it.

The man that had once been Cadet Kasoria felt the Ymiden heat drain from his face. The cold claimed him when he thought back to his past, wondering if these men would be his allies or enemies, had he ever finished his training. But, as always, such musings bought him back to that night. The one burned and carved into his mind, that never missed a chance to roar screaming back into his eyes as-

"Where's yer shield?"

"... sorry?"

"Your shield. For that thing." Elbert gestures lazily at Kasoria's gladius, hanging from his belt. "Yer meant to have a shield with it."

There was no reply from the pup, and Elbert craned his neck around to see furiously blinking eyes. The older man chuckled, now. Not at a cheap jibe or childish insult, but a rarer, refined joke. "So, yer a reader, but just didn't read about that, huh?"

"I... No."

"But you trained with it?"

"Yes." No hesitation there, but the words were bit out hard and sharp and Elbert could tell a man who wanted to keep his history in his head. Well, he wasn't about to pry. Most men that took up their trade were the same. "Good with it, too."

"Aye, I don't doubt it. But the gladius? Best used with a shield. You block with it-" he mimed holding some tall, broad, and square, jerking it up to ward off a blow "-then stab with the gladius-" his empty other hand did just that "-then pull it back. Ready for the next sod who steps in front of you. That's how the foot sloggers used to train with them."

"Fuckin' historian, over here, lads!"

Kasoria ignored Andres' latest attempt at comedy, shuffling himself over on his butt towards his new... friend? Well, it was close enough. Bartrok's caravan was still mustering, pudgy merchant stumping through the maze of oxen and horses and wood and wheels and people with their myriad of questions and demands. They'd still have the better part of a break before they had to get up and take their positions. So, until then...

"Did you learn that in the army?"

Elbert's eyes slid over to him. Regarded those sharp, angular features easing into a neatly-trimmed beard, through a haze of pipe smoke. He opened his mouth... and blew a smoke ring into the air above them both. The Ymiden suns swallowed it within a trill or two, and the mercenary smiled as he answered.

"You train in the army?" The beat of hesitation, sullen and annoyed at such an obvious avoidance, made the blond man smile again and chuckle. He sat up with a grunt, cursing the passing arcs for leaving him a mite weaker, with each celestial rotation. "Asking questions is no way to be a sellsword, boy. Only questions we ask are "how much" and "who're we fighting". Everything else is a man's own business."

The kid actually had the balls to smile back at him. "Thought you said we weren't sellswords?"

Little smartarse.

"Yeah, well, you watch," he said, settling back down and deciding on a nap before Bartrok's bawling commands came to fruition, and their platoon of hired swords had to scatter to their assigned rides. "Long as they see our swords and the crossbows, any fucker watching from some ambush spot will keep his distance. Jackals and horse shit. That's all we've got to look forward to."

Kasoria remembered bristling at his dismissive words, his knowing tone. It was his first time as a caravan guard, hired on after being vouched for by "businessmen" in the Outer Perimeter, who told Bartrok that yes, indeed, young Kasoria was... quite accomplished, when it came to violence. Plus he had his own sword, so that was one less expense the miserly old sod had to worry about. He'd tried to brush off the danger, the risk, the odds arrayed against them, winding down that seaward road to where Etzos ended and Rhakros began.

The young sellsword snorted and decided to polish his sword. Old bugger spoke like a man that knew he was in the right.

Probably be fucking boring.

Continued here

[Zip]

Overview

Pleasure and an honor to grade your threads again. Nice to see a young, greener, but still-out-and-about Kasoria for once. You know the rest of my opinion on your writing. Enjoy your rewards.

Points

XP: 10

Loot/Injuries/Overstepping

Nope
Loot: Nah
Fame: 0

Knowledge

Discipline: Staving off exhaustion

Blades (Gladius): Best Used Alongside a Shield
Blades (Gladius): Designed PRIMARILY to Thrust and Stab
Deduction: Recognizing Knowledge One Would Most Likely Learn in the Army
Discipline: Not Being a Hero and Staying In Cover
Tactics: Use The Wounded to Lure Out Fresh Victims
Tactics: Countering Ranged Weapons With Your Own

Non-Skill Knowledge:
NPCs Andre and Elbert: Caravan Guards, Sellswords
NPC Bartrok: Pudgy, Pugnacious Merchant and Investor
Eztos: Southern Land Trade Route to Rhakros

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