Dungeon
Part One: Heart of The Deep
Prologue: Wayward
The sands reached onwards, a harsh and arid land, ever changing ever shifting, inconstant, and stained with blood. A light wind came down toppling dunes, only the sands helping to mask the rancour that rose from the cooling dead. Leaving him to stand there; awestruck, while about him the world turned.
It was quiet now, the battle had ended, and man and beast lay side by side within the desert sands, it was treacherous terrain for native and foreigner alike. But they had held the advantage of numbers, of weapons, of tactics; and that was why they treated the wounded, that was why the sickly whimpers still wafted out upon the burning breeze. While a field of corpses rotted beneath the eastern sun. Hordes of men, armed and armoured picked through the debris, salvaging, armour and iron from friend and foe alike. And where they found a man still alive, they dragged him out of the field and towards the line of tents beyond for what ever hope remained within the fallen form.
They stretched to the skyline rising over the dunes and resting on the arid earth, cones of coloured fabric, orange, white, purple, all shades caught within the haze of heat blending into a blurry line as soon as ones gaze wavered. A temporary outpost for the forty-second battalion, on their way north to reinforce the front-line against the natives. Soon enough they would trade in the open deserts for dense forests and enemies that flitted through them like the god damn wind. Still he could not see the horrors there being worse than the ones before him.
“Oswald: staring will do you no good. Get to work.” The voice was harsh and heavy, yet suffused with a weary tone that matched the man’s downcast eyes. Oswald turned to stare backwards at his squad leader. The man dressed like all the rest, a white gambeson, and iron helmet, with leather vambraces strapped to arms and shins. Only the short-sword gleaming at his hip marked him as other than a regular peon. But his gaze was soon returned to the corpse before him, towering above him.
“How many died?” His question lingered for a moment, a few other men from his squad joining the Sergeant.
“I don’t want to know.” The old man replied fingering the sword at his waist, a harsh light swiftly bursting to life in his eyes as a desert wind began to rise. And they faced the dissenter in their ranks.
“Then there were the ships, how many died just coming here?” Oswald continued his questions hanging in the scorched air, contention brewing between him and the forces behind him as his voice steadily rose in pitch. “How many others have died, how many good men were lured here by their faith, only to have themselves delivered to their god? How many have died for the promise of gold and riches, killed before a single copper could grace their palms? How many people have died from the lies they have been feeding us!” His screams, dying softly on the eastern wind as they blew once more across the field pushing the clouds above to part.
And so was revealed within a beam of light; its form. That of a corpse standing over twenty-feet high, a mass of muscle and fat, a hairless scalp, with small beady eyes, hands able to grind flesh and bone alike to a bloody gristle. four tusks sprouting from its lower jaw; and upon the battle field a force of destruction that could only be conjured by the very forces of hell. That was an ogre.
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The tears leaked down from corners of his eyes, it wasn’t what he had wanted, this wasn’t why he came here. “And you, what lie did you fall for, what lie will you die for?” The Sergeant mocked marching up to his subordinate grabbing a tight hold of Oswald’s collar and tossing the young man back. His head struck hard, jostling him - a short bout of pain ringing through his skull as his helmet struck the fallen monstrosities knee-cap “Pull yourself together. Those of us who survive this trial will be rewarded. Richer than any king and with the power to boot. But you won’t get none of that by philosophising. Now do your’ gods damn job and gather what you can, or you’ll be joining the wounded back at camp!” He yelled drawing his short-sword from the scabbard at his side. His eyes burning with indignation, and a mix of fear, a cut opening on the old man’s scalp to bleed down across his face.
Rebellion must be quelled.
Oswald stared upwards at the blade pointed square between his eyes, watching as the sun glinted off its edge, and he remembered ever so briefly why he came to this god’s forsaken land. “I... want adventure.” He whispered rising slowly taking his spear in one hand, wiping tears away with the other “I wanted an adventure, that was it.”
A snort sounded further back in the crowd, a young man fixing his gaze upon Oswald; a mix of pity and humour in his eyes; “Well I’d say you damn found one!” He laughed inspecting the corpse of a dead soldier before removing its helmet and throwing it in a hemp sack besides him. No one else laughed though, they could tell this was neither the time nor the place.
Oswald stared at them, each and every one; their eyes were defeated, down to a man. One battle had done this; just one, but it had brought them to the realisation they would die in this foreign land, without a glimpse of home. Would he be satisfied? Would Will?
He already knew the answer.
Oswald took the straps keeping his gambeson in place unlatching each one, allowing the padded armour to fall to the ground besides him. He slammed the butt of his spear into the earth forcing it to stand upright as he undid each of the braces on his arms and legs casting them too into the sand. Soon he was dressed only in his helmet, and a once white shirt, now stained by travel and the flecks of blood from men and beast alike. And yet with little else to his name he turned and began to walk. “Recruit get back here!” The sergeant yelled, Oswald hearing the footsteps close behind muffled by terrain. But he did not flinch, instead walked with an even pace his eyes fixated ahead so clearly one would think him possessed.
Behind him the sergeant stood sword raised high to strike his insubordinate recruit down.
But before the blow could land, the sound of steel ringing off of steel tore through the still air. And standing between the two of them, the sergeant and the deserter, stood an officer. Steel armour was placed over his gambeson the braided ropes hanging about his neck dictating his rank as a platoon commander. “Let the fool go. For a boy who could not even face a goblin; we have no need. The desert will take care of him for us.” The commander smirked pale blue eyes flickering out to watch as Oswald froze, before he muttered his reply.
"Would not, not could not.” He spoke at last, refusing to turn to meet the mans gaze , the wind rising in his wake, as he marched ahead into that endless sea of sand.
His life and death, now the in the throes of fate.