The Warrior
Chapter II
The Half People
Continued
—
A Name Not Taken
(The Warrior)
Book III
Of
‘The Nameless’
Anthologies
By T.J. Sanders © and A.T. Sanders ©
—
Chapter II
The Half-People
(Completed)
‘Should we kill it?’
He asked, flicking his head in the general direction of the thing.
It was a dark, indigo-skinned child that could not have been any older than some fleeting thirty years at most.
‘It’d do the same for us.’ spoke one voice.
‘It’s just a child!’ another half-whispered, shocked.
Captain Himmel’s giant feet slapped along the forest floor as he strode across get a good look at the thing once more.
It was, indeed, rather alien.
It had a purplish tint to it. Vaguely hominid – but not humanoid.
Hmm. Elvenid, to be sure – now getting a closer look at the short pointed ears.
Ah, of course.
A Ti’er D’al. Wan child of Innorruuk.
‘I say we kill it.’ spoke the captain.
‘Aye’, said one voice.
A silence fell between them all.
There were not many of them at camp left.
Many had scattered for fear of repudiation from the Ti’er D’al.
A proud, vicious, xenophobic people.
He wondered if the child before them knew if his own people; the ‘Half-lings’, as most people, especially those detestable Humans, ‘lovingly’ referred to his entire race, were much the same.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ spoke the captain, again.
‘Of course you think he’s right. You said we should kill the child in the first place.’
‘He’s no child.’ said the captain, giving another sideways glance at the Elfling.
It looked to have seen at least thirty years. The captain had lived far too long, seen too many things; people belonging to races he had not believed could even be biologically possible.
The hair on its head was black, but it had a thick shade of white stubble that had not yet been turned to ash by the many revolutions of the earth around its suns.
He had witnessed with his own eyes that the people of this race turned ‘gray’ in the hair and body, much like the people of their own.
It was curious, to be certain.
In any case, this one could be dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Types like this are said to have eaten the young of our own.
‘He’s waking up!’, a voice said.
‘KILL IT!’, someone screamed.
The captain whipped around and his eyes scanned his scant party wildly.
‘Who said that?’
No one moved.
Another voice suddenly yelped – shouted.
The captain whipped around again.
The thing had awoken.
It was saying something that they did not understand.
It was rambling quite wildly.
The captain raised the back of his hand as if to whip a misbehaving cur.
The thing shirked from him. It flinched.
He felt awful. Quite awful, really.
The captain lowered his hand and shouted to quiet the growing symphony of voices behind him.
‘I CAN’T HEAR.’
Silence fell.
‘Speak’.
The child began to say something that he did not understand.
The half-man swore, put his hands on his hips, and rolled his eyes around his head while the child set himself to yammering some more.
‘[Speak]’.
The child snapped to his attention.
‘How did you do that?’
‘[What?]’ spoke the captain.
The elf-boy looked him in utter astonishment.
‘[Do what?]’’, repeated the captain.
‘Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .’
The alien child trailed off.
The captain started to laugh. He looked back at his companions.
Some smiled. Some looked unamused. Many were downright furious, and clamoring over each other now.
‘Relax. I am still your captain – what few of us remain. We don’t have to kill everything we see.’
So spoke the captain to his band of not-so-merry-anymore men.
The elf began to speak to the boy again.
‘[Where am I?] [Who are you?] [How can you understand me?’]
The captain put up an open hand.
‘[One at a time.]’ he said.
The elf eyed the company of half-men wildly and began to wriggle in his bindings.
‘[You had better relax.]’
The captain looked at the elf.
Tied to the base of this tree, they were at a height with each other. Otherwise, the elf would stand at least a foot taller than the half-man and his people.
This, alone, made him dangerous – regardless of the history between their people.
The elf looked at the captain.
He was not sure what he saw in his eyes.
The captain was not sure what he saw in his.
The halflings’ company had now relaxed enough to bicker amongst themselves.
Some whispered, some spoke openly.
One hawked and spat as he made eye contact with the captain.
The captain continued on.
‘[We don’t have a lot of time to sit here and chat, lad. They will come for us.]’
‘[Who?]’ asked the dark elf.
A silence fell between them for a long time.
‘[You.]’ said the captain.
[Oh.]
‘We can’t send him back. They’ll kill every last fucking one of us. And sell our parts to some. . .
Troll deli or wet market or something.’ one of them shuddered.
‘You’re right.’ said the captain.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he said, after no one had an answer.
No one had an answer, still.
‘[Are you going to kill me?]’ the thing asked.
‘[Me?]’ the captain asked.
He pretended to think for a moment.
‘[No.]’
The boy sighed.
‘[Them?’] the captain indicated towards his band of savages.
The boy looked up.
‘[Probably.]’
The boy’s optimistic glance soon dilapidated to horror.
The captain respected that he had nothing to say. It was plain that he understood what it meant to be faced with the reality of your mortality.
‘[If we let you live, you will us even sooner.]’
‘[I mean you no harm!] [I was lost!]’ pleaded the boy.
The captain shook his head sorrily.
‘[I’m sorry, child. We have to.]’
‘[NO!]’ the boy began to wriggle harder than he ever had.
Some of his man began to step forward.
Some had axes. Some, spears. Others, daggers.
An eager man stepped forward with spear in hand – ready to throw it.
He had a clear shot, too.
‘[STOP!]’ yelled the boy.
He beat his legs against the ground – feverishly wiggled his wrists until the ropes dug into his skin.
‘[PLEASE!]’ he begged, feverishly.
‘ENOUGH!’ shouted the captain.
The boy stopped.
His men stopped, too.
‘We are not savages.’
‘Some of you, yes – certainly. . .’ he said, looking back at his men.
‘But Our People. . . savages, we are not.’
He looked at the blue boy for a long time. None dared to move or say a word. All that could be heard were the many sounds of nocturnal life among the woods.
Chitters, clacks, hums, croaks – all manner of teeming life made their voices heard now.
The captain reached behind him and produced a large bowie knife.
The boy glanced between the captain and the blade.
‘[Please, sir.]’
The captain said nothing.
He strode forward with the blade in hand.
‘[I’m begging you. I have children.]’
The captain grimaced.
‘[I’m sorry, son. They’ll kill us all. May the Gods have mercy on my pitiful soul.]’
He suddenly advanced, before the boy could even react.
The knife glinted in the light as he strode forward.
The boy frantically began to kick to get away – wriggled like a caught cat.
He could go nowhere – do nothing.
He was dead long before he ever came to us.
Sometimes you have to kill – because you simply have to.
Sometimes the hand is forced and the body has to move.
This was not one of those times.
The Gods would not be kind to him.
The boy began to shout, but one of the boys had already gagged him with a cloth – wrapped it around both the base of the tree and around the blue thing’s mouth all at once.
Before the half-man had reached him, he had fainted – lost consciousness.
The captain’s blade was just a hair’s breadth away from the boy’s heart before the boy had suddenly slumped in his bindings – weightless.
The captain looked at Grimmel, the soldier just behind the tree at which the boy had been bound and gagged.
Grimmel shrugged.
‘It’s said that they are a nocturnal people. It may be night, but they may be looking for this one.’
‘True enough. . .
I can’t bring myself to kill the boy.’
Grimmel shook his head at the captain.
‘It’s him or us, Cap.’
The captain nodded, gravely.
He said nothing for quite a while.
There was rustling behind him – the band of not-so-merry-men yet again set themselves ablaze to chatting about what they should do, what the plan ought to be, where they ought to go.
They were smart to start thinking such things.
‘We ought to head back.’ said the captain.
‘We’ve found nothing here.’
‘What about the pyramid?’ whispered Grimmel.
‘It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. . . and it doesn’t look either Nerian or Erudian. There are no less than four undead that seem to guard the place . . . they do not move, no matter the time of day. They kill anything – everything, that gets close.
What about it?’ asked the captain.
‘Do we know what it does?’ asked Grimmel.
‘Hmm.’ the captain looked at the ground.
‘I saw a. . . mage – or some sort, you know how they are – some sort adept at magic. . .
Well, I seen a mage pop right at the top of the pyramid – dead in the center. As if he were meant to. See what I mean?’
‘Hmmm. . .’ said Grimmel, pensively scratching his chin.
‘There is one in the Commonlands, looks just like it.’ said Grimmel.
‘Due West.’ continued Grimmel.
‘Mmm.’ nodded the captain.
‘We should pack it in. Head back to Rivervale.’
‘It’s night.’ Grimmel said, eyebrows raising.
‘Ah — I’ll be. . . Well. . .’
The captain looked at the boy again, still passed out.
He looked at Grimmel.
Grimmel looked at him.
The captain sighed – a deep, pained sigh.
He rubbed his face with his hands.
‘I’ll help us pack. We need to go – before They get curious.’
Grimmel nodded.
‘And this one?’ Grimmel asked.
The captain still had not taken his eyes off the boy.
‘He would kill us, you know. They’d do us in – all of them.’ said Grimmel.
‘I know.’ said the captain.
‘He has a good heart, though.’ continued the captain.
Grimmel gave him an incredulous look.
‘A good, black heart – is still black.’
‘Why don’t you like him? Be honest.’ the captain inclined his head towards Grimmel.
Grimmel seemed to shirk from the question.
‘Just don’t know him, is all.’
‘Hmm.’ snorted the captain.
‘We’re letting him go.’
Chapter III
The Dark Elves
(Completed)
‘YOU WHAT?’ the guildmaster shouted, incredulous.
His hand shook as he held it to his own face in astonishment – as if staring at the folly of creation itself.
The old man took a deep breath – seemed to compose himself after a moment.
‘. . . How many of them?’
‘I don’t know.’
The old man shook his head.
‘It would take at least a thousand of those little bastardlings to take me out.’ scoffed the rugged ancient knight.
He leaned on a halberd. Why he was always wielding a weapon, he may never know.
Does he lean on the halberd to wipe his ass, too?
The old nan made eye contact with him as if he had somehow read his mined.
A frown was on his face.
‘I can’t believe you.’
‘I cannot fucking believe this. . .’
‘You. . . God. . . damned. . . fool.’ the old man said, wistfully.
A silence fell between them.
He did not know what was worse. . . his failure at his little attempt at ‘scouting’, or, the old man’s scorn and the shame that weighed his shoulders down.
The warrior-boy hanged his head in shame. Tears filled his eyes, and he fought them back with all his might.
He could feel the guildmaster’s cold eyes on him still.
It would be better if he had just struck him.
The look was so much worse.
The warrior, that had been his trainer, that had given him the task of returning with at least a few grisly trophies of conquest – did not say anything for a long time.
‘. . . At least you are alive.’ he said.
Then he walked out of the room.
(. . . Meanwhile. . . )
The sound of the heavy gears that extended the bridge from the city of Neriak over its makeshift cave-moat began to clink and whir. It was a sound that every young dark elf grew used to living in the city.
But that it would drop so suddenly, and so without any accoutrement such as fanfare or heraldry . . . now that was another curious thing, indeed.
Then . . .
The unmistakable sound of hoofbeats padding along wooden planks jerked his head in the direction of its origin.
There was only one stable in Neriak, and it was on the other side of the city to him – horses were not native to these woods, much less these lands – this whole region, as it were.
Only the guards and the city watch outriders used the some two-dozen, strictly to be used only by The Constabulatory.
The ‘Snitchy Watch’ as his old childhood friends had called them.
He missed them.
He shook his head.
‘We have to go!’ he urged the old man. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The old man was calm as he shook his head.
‘They were dead the moment they saw you.’
For a moment the young man thought to strike him – but the lesson from his first transgression still throbbed in his temple.
Instead, he rushed out of the building and towards the direction of the hoofbeats. The bridge was still drawn.
Multiple guards stood at the west gate, mere feet before the bridge.
He had no time for this.
‘Halt!’
‘What business have you?’
He could do nothing but look desperate.
Fuck. He had to think of something now.
‘I have no horse!’
The guards looked between each other, then sized the man up.
‘Well neither do we, as you can see. Piss off.’
A couple of them stood fast, halberds at their sides.
The young warrior pretended to be offended.
‘If I don’t come back with at least one of those little bastard’s heads. . . it’s mine.’ he flicked his head towards the direction he had came from.
The couple of guards that had stiffened – suddenly drooped, sighed, and laughed.
‘Well, hell yeah!’
‘Get you a piece!’
To the boy’s astonishment – they began to let him pass. They parted like tectonic plates.
He sprinted past them – until a hard leather open palm thudded against his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
He fell to his ass.
‘Hold on.’
He got up, ready for it – balled his hands into fists.
He gritted his teeth, knowing the little trick was over now
. He would have to fight his way out.
‘Where’s your sword?’
‘Huh?’ the boy looked at his left side, then his right – patting down.
He reached behind him as if he had forgotten his scabbard – and managed a pathetic little chuckle.
The guards looked between them – a good half dozen of them.
And started to laugh.
Impudently.
The boy looked upset – snatched one of the swords from the least-tall and nearest-all one, and fled towards the bridge.
‘HEY!’
They clamored after him.
‘THAT’S CASTLE FORGED STEEL. I’LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR EVERY fucking penny of that. . . ‘
His voice trailed off.
He huffed and puffed and panted and sweated as he raced along the bridge and up the cave ramp towards the long wide cave entrance.
He could only hear his leather boots padding against the ground, and he could still see the dust of The Constabulatory – that great big dusty mess that their hooves had made.
He sprinted, coughing through it.
His knees buckled; he dug the tip of the sword he had stolen into the ground and leaned on it for a moment as a gravedigger would a shovel – and heaved his breaths until he had enough energy to begin walking forward again.
He was going to make it there before them – somehow.
He did not care how, or if it killed him.
He had gotten lost out there – truth be told – and they, the Half-People, alone, had been his sole savior.
And he needed to get there before they did.
Chapter IV
Nice Gear
(Completed)
He was too late.
The sight was brutal – there were no other words to describe it.
Body parts lay, still bloody, but dry, now, right there on the forest floor, plain as day.
Blood splattered the leaves and pine needles of the dark woods as if a bored painter had come and dumped his entire supply with the intention of giving this part of the forest a new colour entirely.
It made him sick.
He doubled over and heaved, but nothing came.
He grimaced, shaking his head and wiping his mouth of the kind of drool that only comes with an unsuccessful attempt at emptying the contents of the body.
There was – clearly, a battle here.
But not a single blue, nor purple, nor even white-skinned body lay in the ground, there.
It had been a massacre.
Pink flesh lay here, there, everywhere.
What was once man – or at least, half-man, reduced to sinew, bone, tissue, and marrow.
Whole lives, heritages, lineages, bloodlines – people. . . reduced to nothing.
Not even memories.
Who will remember them now?
As he walked among them, all of the sound seemed to fade from the world.
Maggots crawled along their flesh. Flies buzzed along their eyes.
They were people.
They had helped him.
And he had killed them.
Every last one of them.
He fell to his knees among the filth.
And sobbed.
He prayed no one could see him.
He sobbed, all the louder.
And the forest began to come alive again.
‘You there!’
He did not know how much time had passed.
A rider in brilliant plate armor leapt from his saddle and lifted his visor.
It was a handsome, middle-aged, hard face.
‘Young lad.’ he said.
‘I ought to be thanking you, ’ he continued,
‘Those rats we were able to get rid of in the forest. . . well I suppose you’ve figured it out’ he smiled.
‘Hmm. The smell get to you, eh, boy?’ he said.
He must have noticed the red eyes – and the tears – and the snot, as well, probably.
He nodded at the older man.
‘Well, you’re green yet.’ he laughed.
He did not know what he meant by green.
Most of us were, indeed, not green, but purple or blue.
When the boy did not laugh, the man cleared his throat.
‘We were all green, once, boy. No harm done.’ he said, a grin still plain on his face.
‘How did you come upon them, hmm? These little. . . things.’
The man kicked at one of the dismembered heads of the half-men as if it were one of his childhood toys. It was with the side of his foot, with style.
It made him sick all over again.
‘You know. . . ‘ the boy trailed off.
The man nodded.
‘It is what it is. I get it.’ he continued to nod.
‘You did good, lad. This is a victory – for the glory of Innorruuk!’ he shouted, flashing a row of white teeth even more brilliant than his plated steel sword.
‘Those. . . half-things are worshippers of strange gods. . . Babbidybrook, or. . . Bristledook or something.’
The young man met the older man’s eyes.
‘Bristlebane.’
‘They follow Bristlebane.’
The older man was unamused.
‘Yes, yes, quite right. What, did you fall in love?’ he scoffed, shaking his head.
‘With such as this?’ he made a ticking noise with his mouth. ‘Tick’.
‘You’re a piece of shit.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What the fuck did you just say?’ the older man asked again, smiling.
The older man, in armor, drew but one of his swords.
The younger man, with no armor, and one sword, did not.
‘Why did you kill them?’
‘What?’ the older man’s voice cracked in incredulity.
The older man was bereft of words.
‘Why did we have to kill then? They didn’t do anything to us!’ the younger warrior pleaded.
‘Do you feel for these things?’ the older man curled his lip at him, disgusted
‘They are inferior. . . inferior beings are not fit to live. In this way, we carry out nature’s bidding. Would you have it that – say a dog should learn to talk, do we let it create its own independent dog-state in the middle of Neriak?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ the younger man asked.
The older man shook his head, rolled his eyes.
The smile never left his face.
‘Survival of the fittest. Only the strong survive.’
The young man looked at the forest floor again, downcast.
The bodies around him were innumerable. The viscera, the blood, the gore, the maggots, the filth – the pink matter that he could not quite understand . . .
It was his fault.
He had done this. He alone had earned the praise of this stranger.
‘Do you want to die with them?’ the older man cocked his head.
‘We do not have love for this sort.’
‘They are nothing to us. And we are nothing to them.’
‘They would do the same for us.’ he shrugged, heading back to his horse.
He had just gotten one foot in the stirrup, when the younger man piped up again:
‘They saved me.’
The older man stopped.
And turned around.
‘Did they give you a nice little tug, too?’
The younger man looked disgusted as the older man smiled.
‘I’ll bet one of their little wives couldn’t stand but to see you all helpless and tied up like that. I’ll bet she kept you warm at night, eh? That fire always dies down in the wee hours of the morning. . .’ he chuckled.
And that’s when strode towards him.
‘Which way to town?’
‘Open your map.’ the older man scoffed.
‘Do you have one?’ asked the younger man, seeming earnest and all.
The older man pursed his lips to the corner of his mouth, pensively.
‘Hmm.’ he said, finally.
He reached into his back pocket.
Just at that moment, the younger man swung on him.
The older man had not expected it one bit.
He fell – hard.
‘Hey.’ the young man beckoned, looking down at him.
He was out cold. Sleeping like a baby.
The young man chuckled.
He crouched over the man’s body, and began to strip the poor bastard –
Helm to boot.
He kicked him in the side, hard.
Aside from the momentum, the old fucker did not budge one bit.
‘Hey. . .’ he said, to his unconscious body.
‘Nice gear.’
He smiled.
‘Bitch.’
Chapter V
You Need A Name – Something. . . Cool
(in progress)
- A.T. Sanders ©
sanderspublishinginc.com 