Authors’ corner: I won’t be spending next weekend at home, so no chapter will be coming next week Sad [https://forum.royalroadl.com/images/smilies/sad.png]
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I am Tok’rit. I was born of common blood, but quickly noticed that I wasn’t like the other kids, I was bigger. I was stronger. So with the guidance of my uncle, I trained to be a fighter; a warrior. At the age of 15 I could spar with adults, two cycles later I could hold my own against a hardened warrior of the banner. My uncle was one of the Banner, a mercenary group who often joined in exploration campaigns.
So after my coming of age I quickly joined the company, I became one of the Banner. Both my father and uncle were proud of me, proud of my potential. But what kept tugging at my heart long after I ventured out of my little village was the face of my mother. She was a sweet woman, soft to a fault. She would often try to be stern only to fail and cry in apology. I loved her dearly, but I was a man now, and I wanted to see the world.
Still, the way her stare fell upon me just before I set out… She didn’t look sad or reluctant to let me go any more. She didn’t cry or weep. She just gave me an empty gaze, devoid of feeling. Her eyes empty of the sparkle she always had when she looked at me, she didn’t wear her smile; which always set my soul at ease. I wanted to stay and ask for her forgiveness, make her look at me like she always did… but my pride didn’t let me. I made my choice, and I would follow through.
The first night out in the wilderness I couldn’t sleep, each and every time I closed my eyes I saw her stare. Her empty eyes meeting my own… that night I shed tears of guilt.
Life with the company was… unique, for lack of a better word. I did get to travel quite a lot, but exploration campaigns weren’t as common as I thought. Over the course of 4 cycles we only went on a single campaign, while spending most of our time protecting stray villages. The experience wasn’t bad though… I did get to prove myself a few times, the first man I killed was a scout, a bandit scout to be exact.
…We were at a village called ‘creek village’ named after the brook that the village was built besides. As the sun began to set and its rays were dimmed I was on patrol. We took turns patrolling the village, 10 of us were checking along the outskirts of the village, with some distance between us, just enough to hear if there’s trouble. While 5 were patrolling the inner village, in case a bandit got through unnoticed.
The rest of the company were either sleeping in camp or drinking at the village inn, we would cycle the duties. The ones checking the outskirts were relieved every 3 hours, while the others were relieved every 4 hours. This way we were rested enough to fight if need be. That evening it just so happened that I noticed a figure run in close proximity to the tree line besides the village. I decided to call out to the figure, it may have been a villager, I wouldn’t want to call the others in that case. And even if the figure would be spooked I would know it’s an outsider of sorts, and report the news as normal.
Seeing as I’ve noticed it, the figure walked out of the woods, it had a stature of a man; dressed in a worn out cloak that was hiding most of his body. The man claimed that he was lost, and that he wanted to ask for some water and a place to rest. I heard this story a few times before, so I wanted to check if he was truthful…
“You said that you were lost yes? Are you a traveler? Where were you headed, and how did you stray?” I asked him in a stern voice.
“Aye there stranger, there is no need to ask all these questions, I can see I’m not wanted here… I’ll be on my way.” says the man with a frown on his face, as he starts to back away.
Just as he turns around I notice a bulge of some kind on his cloak, making it stick out in contrast to the otherwise ragged piece of cloth. My reasoning told me that the bulge was a weapon, probably a poorly strapped sword. I again called out to the man, making him stop in his tracks.
“Do you know how to wield that weapon, ‘traveler’? I ask with feigned humor, my palm already on my swords handle.
The moment my words fall on his ears he briskly draws his short sword, holding it with both hands, pointing it at my face.
“Now! He’s alone!” he yells, while looking behind him.
I panic at his words, I didn’t expect others to be in close enough proximity to help the man, my eyes swiftly move from tree to tree, eagerly searching for archers and arrows heading for my life. The man sees this as an opportunity and turns tail, his call for help was a bluff… and I fell for it. If he makes it back to his men this could be a tough fight, I don’t know how many there are…
In yet another moment of panic I spin the sword in my hand, wrapping my index finger around the cross guard and resting the blade in my palm, this felt natural. And I threw the sword, just as I would throw a spear. My aim held true, and the sword pierced the man in the back, silencing him forever. I don’t know if it was luck or skill that guided the blade, but I was satisfied either way. The now dead man’s body was imbedded in a tree trunk, my sword being the support that held him upright.
The man’s previous scream got the attention of two of the Banner men and they came running to the source of the noise. When they reached me they were surprised by what they found, and commended me on my throw, praising my strength in the process.
Later that day; once the sun has finally set, a spotter was sent in the direction the scout had come from, in search for the bandit camp. We would raid them tonight, end the plight before it even begins. We would later check if there are any bounties to be collected.
Upon the spotters return he reported that the bandits are around 60 in number; quite a large group… if not for the scouts blunder we would’ve definitely suffered rather large losses. While we number around 100, some are drunk after patrol duty, others are asleep. An unannounced surprise attack would’ve overwhelmed us. Thankfully we now had the advantage of surprise and preparation.
We set out into the forest, spreading out in a semicircle formation, moving slowly through the vast labyrinth of bark and leaves. The crunching noise of the dry blanches and occasional grunts accompany us to the nearing field of battle, the keenest of our hunters being the ones who actually lead the way, guiding us in the darkness of the forest.
As we draw near the bandit camp our hunters’ gesture to stop, there seem to be a few lookouts. The bandits appear to be quarreling over something as distant voices can be heard. The flickering of their campfires which spread some much needed light in the darkness also serve to announce the approaching raid. I grow nervous; my sweaty palms grip the sword tighter, squeezing the leather of the handle, which makes a squeaky noise.
Our hunters signal us to spread out, encircle the camp and draw our bows. The agreed upon signal to fire being a whistle. I do as instructed, take position besides my fellow Banner men and take aim. I was never good with a bow, but accuracy meant little now, I just had to fire an arrow and engage in a melee. The hunters being the ones to take out the other archers while the rest of us clash with the dismayed foe.
I grip the nocked arrow as if my life hangs on it, fearing that it would slip through my sweaty fingers. I try to steady my breath, but the pace of breathing I’m so used to just seems to elude me. My mind produces all kinds of scenarios, which only serve to stoke the fires of fear in me.
The whistle is heard, my arrow flies free of its captor. My mind is cleared. I rush out of the tree line, and cleave an arm at the elbow of some man who almost unsheathed his sword. The flow of the sword showing me the way forward as I stab at his gut, then push his body clean off with my boot. A sparkle grabs my attention; a man is swinging his sword at me, the reflection of the fire in the steel being my savior. I don’t have enough time to block with my blade, so I use my bare hand to slap it aside. I then use the pommel of my sword to smash his head in.
My next victim is almost cleaved in half as he charges at me with a battle axe over his head. Seeing this display a woman bellows in anger and madly swings at me with her blade. I parry her blow while slicing her leg in the process; making her bend a knee, following the flow to swiftly meet her neck with my sword. The edge of my blade passes through her soft flesh, meeting little resistance. I meet her gaze with my own, her face forever frozen in terror, tears still streaming down her face, as if she was still alive.
I stand there, bloodied. Surprised at the sight, it tears me away from my calm state and feelings of anxiety rush my mind. I look around, as if only now acknowledging my companions, they cheer for me. The battle was over; the bandits now lie dead or wounded.
We take what we can, weapons, armor, coin, and question the survivors before quickly relieving them of their pain. Taking the heads of the leaders we set off back to the village, to celebrate our great victory.
I gained the title of 'Giant' with my display on the field, my stature being a part of the reason as well. We drink and laugh, we fight and cheer, overall we wash away the fear we previously experienced… but soon our laughter turns to mourning for the few we lost. Not many, but they were a part of us, a part of the Banner…
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Every cycle the company takes a few weeks off, some go home to their families, others go to a city and squander away their earnings, be it on pleasure or gambling. I always spent my time in cities, I didn’t want to see my mother’s empty eyes again when I set off. I was a coward of sorts, my uncle always nagged me to return home with him, maybe even stay for a season or too, we had enough money. But I just couldn’t…
At the beginning of my 32nd cycle, I was in the city of red sand, that being a local name of course, the true one being “Cassia”. From what I’ve heard Cassia was the founder of this region, and the city was named after her, quite the honor… though the locals only called it ‘red sand city’ because of, well the color of sand or dirt found around it.
As I was taking a stroll in this city I couldn’t help but gawk at the sights, the city was grand beyond belief. I could truly say that I have never seen anything like it in all my travels. The outer city was called the ‘commons’ and was a huge pub of activity, being both a housing and a trading area. Most if the merchants only had permission to sell there so one could always hear haggling in the streets.
The inner city was what awe spired me, the buildings were huge, the streets wide, and the amount of people in one place was unbelievable. The pounding of hammers would echo through the streets, the scent of freshly baked pastries carried me from corner to corner… the colorful shops and stores that littered the streets left me speechless. And the ladies… they looked different… they even smelled different, many a time would I turn my head surprised at the avid smell of strawberries, only to find myself staring at a woman.
I spent my evening at an inn, famous for their lively environment and rich flavored mead. Soon enough I found some drinking companions and we shared our stories, laughing and cheering one another to continue. I then went to a brothel with my new found friends, and spent my night in the embrace of a beautiful woman who smelt like peaches.
In the morning I asked around about some sightseeing sites, and was told to visit the arena if I don’t wither in the sight of blood. I did just that, unknowing what to expect.
When I finally found my way to the arena I was welcomed by a grand sight, a magnificent manifestation of man’s ingenuity. The whole construction appears to be oval shaped, with cleanly cut and polished stone covering the floor. The magnificent marble columns; which support the grandiosely tall ceiling provide me with a sense of freedom and security. Truly a wonder of human ingenuity.
It takes a few moments to regain my composure, once my head is my own again I pay the entrance fee and eagerly step inside. I am welcomed by a wide corridor littered with paintings of battle and statues of warriors of all kinds. I marvel at the art when I reach a stairway leading upwards. I quickly ascend the stairs, impatient to see if they lead to the top.
On my way up I was met with a number of exits, but I decided to reach as high as I could, all the while the roar of the crowd pushes my excitement further towards the limit… at the end of the stairs I am met with an archway, after passing through it the smell of sweat makes me cover my nose. The sheer number of people is astounding, no wonder it reeks so badly…
The next moment the sight before me is finally taken in, the thundering sound of thousands of people howling and cheering; the noise makes it seem as if the arena itself is alive, and howls for blood. I follow the gaze of the nearest man, who seemed so intent to shout and bellow that he didn’t even notice my attention at all.
Down there, in the blood covered sands of the arena, a small man could be seen… the man was dominating his opponents. At first I thought that he may have been set to fight multiple men at once, but I latter found out that they were too intimidated to take their eyes off of him. The man wielded a spear which seemed to dance along the bodies of his opposition, drawing blood with every move. The spectacle was marvelous to say the least.
I couldn’t help but wonder what a man such as this was doing fighting in the arena, surely he could do better as a merc, heck he could probably start his own company. I ask the people around me, most don’t even register my existence; they’re too transfixed on the dance below. After quite a few repeated gestures I finally managed to get someone’s attention, I quickly proceed to relieve my curiosity before the man’s focus inevitably shifts away from me.
I found out that the man below is the arenas champion, the eldest slave to ever survive in the arena, an old Tunge, skilled beyond measure. With my short term curiosity satiated my gaze again shifts to the sands. The Tunge was toying with the others, purposely drawing out their lives, as if taking pleasure in the act. The distant smile of the Tunge was sending chills down my very core.
Cycles passed and I progressively grew addicted to ‘Cassia, the city of red sand’, whenever I have time I spend it there. My money never staying in my pocket for long, I'm welcomed in ‘the Blue Wing Brothel’ with open arms and legs, the local inn and tavern patrons sing at the mere mention of ‘the giant’. Tales of my travels reached the ears of the people in recent cycles; I enjoy the attention and fame.
As time passed my debts grew, the company provided too little to cover my expenses. I started looking for work on the side, while still staying in the city. I took some bodyguard jobs, even day time guard duty. With every passing day my anxiousness grew, so much what it threatened to devour me.
I asked around so more, and I found out that a tournament was held in the arena, a free for all, with the winner being the last survivor. An enormous profit can be made by winning, more so by betting. My mind was made; I scrapped every bit of coin I could manage, and signed up for the fight, feeling confident in my skill.
The night before the tournament I once again spent in the embrace of a fruit scented woman. Waking up in the morning I made my way to the arena; still as grand as I remember. I made my way inside, only this time from a different entrance. A man guided me to the waiting corner. The tournament would take place at the end of the normal battles.
While we were waiting we had refreshments provided for us, from wine and fruit to mead and soup, guess this is a last meal for most of them.
A loud gong signals the beginning of the melee. Stepping out of the gate I see many of the people running for the weapon walls, and I'm inclined to do the same, choosing a broadsword heavier than most, a fitting weapon for me. I wait for the opposition to thin themselves out, no use in tiring myself needlessly. I stay with my back to the wall, bidding my time, carefully observing my surroundings.
Most seem as mere children, trying to prove their bravado to be true… no matter, I have my reason to be here, don’t need to meddle in theirs as well. I notice a few of the men eyeing me, seems I need to put on a display of sorts, make them fear my approach.
I walk in their general direction, stopping just a few meters away. I bid them to come as my voice rumbles through their ears.
One of them backs away, as if sensing the danger I pose to him. The others weren’t as smart. I deflect a thrust to the side with the middle of my blade and follow through to slice at the neck of the attacker. Not wasting any time the others rush at me as well, one wielding a spear, while the other wields a mace.
The spear being the first to reach me; I redirect it to the right of me with my sword, blocking the approach of the mace wielder. I then step in and swiftly stab at the chest of the spear bearer. The mace wielder flinches at my display and takes a step back, too bad he lost the chance to disengage when he didn’t listen to his instincts.
Stepping around the body of the spear bearer as he stumbles and falls, I take the initiative this time. Letting loose a raging howl of a battle cry from the depth of my stomach, I take the mace wielders head clean off, a satisfying thud sounds at my feet. A deep laughter escapes my lips, this gains the approval of the crowd as it erupts in a load cheer of approval.
My gaze sweeps the arena in search of other opponents willing to taste my wrath, whilst fueling my laughter further. Suddenly I am met with a different set of eyes, these eyes are measuring me… the one they belong to doesn’t fear me. It takes but a brief moment to come to a conclusion, its either me or him, I would rather end this sooner rather than later, wouldn’t want him taking advantage of a moment of weakness or the like.
My laughter comes to a halt, and I take a defensive stance, just in case he decides to throw his spear, I then slowly make my way to the weapon wall. A spear is difficult to deal with if the handler knows how to use it, so I take a large shield and an axe. If all goes well I can hook the spear head with the axe and break his spear on the shield, then let him taste metal. I also take a few javelins; I want to test his reaction.
I steady my breathing and focus on shifting my weight with every step, a steady body equals a steady mind. The man smiles at me, there is no malice in his smile yet it frightens me, I wreck my brain for the reason and soon regret finding the memory.
This was the spear dancer, his smile being the herald of my end.