Before me the sun crawled over the horizon and began its ascent into the sky above. Beside me, Beroea shifted from foot to foot, the young woman straining to see what I was looking at. In the distance, I watched as the entire force of nearly six hundred set out as a singular, massive column.
"No scouts, no riders. They are in parade formation," I muttered to myself, fingers drumming against the head of my warhammer.
"You were right. They aren't going to expect this at all," Beroea replied, sounding slightly confused. "Can you see the future?"
"Ha, no," I chuckled. "That would make this easier, but I'm afraid I am merely very good at planning."
"That is an understatement."
I turned to the young woman.
"Head back, and make sure the others are ready. Oh and remember, your job isn't to kill them all or even to help me, only to stop those who get past me," I repeated.
"Are you sure you'll be alright out there all by yourself?" Beroea asked.
"No offence, but I don't need any help," I stated.
Beroea seemed like she wanted to say something important, but then her cheeks became a little red and she took off back in the direction of the fort. I wondered for a moment what she had wanted to say, but quickly pushed that thought out of my mind.
Picking up my great helm, I dropped it atop my head, and with a few quick movements, secured it in place. I then glanced over at the thirty or so spears stuck into the earth to my left, their hafts sticking into the air, just waiting for me to grab them. Pulling the closest of the sticks out of the ground, I dusted some dirt from the tip, and waited for the enemy to approach.
It didn't take long for visual contact to be made, the long column of raiders striding into view a few minutes later. Most had round shields and spears or swords, while wearing leather or bronze armor. Some wore only a simple cloth or linen shirt the color of their clan. Those who rode on the back of a gotle had blue, while the foot soldiers wore red. I only spotted four wearing purple, and they were all crowded around an important looking man walking in the middle of the group.
I was hoping they would be parading about like a french aristocrat so I could take them out at a distance but as it stood there were simply too many men between me and them.
At about a block away they seemed to realize that something was in their way, as they came to a sudden halt. Then after a moment of quiet, a pair of gotle riders trotted out ahead of their pack, one of them slightly ahead of the other. I didn't let them get far however, as I didn't want to ruin all the surprises I had in store for them.
"Stop! That's close enough!" I bellowed.
They idled there for a moment, considering just ignoring my command only to give in and stop. Studying them closer I noted that the lead man was tall, with wide shoulders, and a head covered by brown, curly hair. His eyes were sharp, and in his hand, held loose in his grip was a bronze-tipped spear.
"Hail!" He called in his own language. "Why do you block our passage?"
"Because I was paid to," I replied.
"Then you are a mercenary?" He pressed, his eyes widening a bit, no doubt surprised that I spoke his rare dialect of eastern Nercidian.
I nodded.
"Good. Then what say you to a generous offer of thirty percent of the spoils? In return all you have to do is step aside," he declared, a wide, confident grin spreading across his face.
It was a generous offer, which meant they had at least some idea of who I was.
"I can't do that," I shouted back. "My fee has already been paid and I never go back on a job."
"A shame," he replied, his tone indicating that he knew this would happen. "Do you have a song you would have us sing at your funeral?"
"Bold of you to assume I can die."
That seemed to rattle at least the messenger's assistant, though the leader merely smiled faintly.
"I will take that as a no! Prepare yourself mercenary, we shall meet you on the field in but a moment," he exclaimed.
The pair then gave me a curt, but respectful nod and trotted back towards their lines. I thought about hurling my spear into his back, but to kill the messenger was the behavior of a barbarian and I was a civilized human being. Now when he rejoined his little army he technically was no longer a messenger, however, and thus fair game.
I hurled the spear with all my strength, arcing it up so it flew the entire length of a city block before impacting the man's upper left side with enough force to carry him from his mount. He tumbled forward, knocked clear from his saddle and into the dirt, dead the moment after he had given his commander the news that I wouldn't leave. The shock of the sudden attack rippled through their lines, and before they had a chance to react I threw the next one.
Piercing straight the sternum of one man and the chest of his comrade behind him, the pair fell together, adding another two to my tally. The third shot hit its target with so much force that his head erupted like grape beneath the hoof of a gotle. The next went slightly wide, but still took a man's arm off and kept going, severing another soldier's leg just above the knee.
I continued tossing spears one after another, my aim requiring only a second or two to adjust before I loosed my weapon. I aimed mainly for the riders, as they were one of the few targets that were still a threat to me. Not a big threat mind you, but they were at least more so then the rank and file men who posed as much threat as wheat did to a thresher.
By the time my projectiles started to run low, and the enemy army began to move I had killed or seriously injured thirty six men, eighty percent of whom had been riding a gotle when they died. The riders numbers were depleted, but there were still twenty eight of them who still drew breath and that was twenty eight too many. Thankfully, they had reached the first series of traps, their animals stepping on the mud covered caltrops I had laid out on the road.
Tossed from their saddle by their pained and panicked animals, I watched as one man fell face first anto another of the small spiky metal pyramids, dying instantly. Another swerved out of the way of a caltrop only to run into his comrade sending them both tumbling to the earth. Several veered off from the main road in hopes of flanking me, but were taken out by a pit trap, and a nail board that swung out from behind a nearby tree.
Their momentum blunted, the ones that came next were more cautious, and were rewarded with a spear to the face. Slowed to nearly a crawl, they made for easy targets. Thinning their numbers down to single digits, their morale seemed on the verge of breaking, only for their lines to be reinforced by a surge of men charging in after them.
To their commander's credit, they didn't run in blindly, and at their front were a wall of shield-wielding warriors who advanced quickly but carefully. The men behind them hastily cleared away my caltrops, nearly getting all of them before I moved to stop them. I kicked over a stake stuck in the ground a few feet away from me, the rope attached to it flinging off into the orchard with the force of a gunshot.
There was a titanic creek and then a crash as an enormous log swung down from the canopy, and struck the shield wall in the side. Four men died in the impact, while another three were sent tumbling to the ground, one of whom fell face first into a pit trap and ended up impaled upon a spike. Their back line now exposed, I hurled my final spear into the chest of the man who I assumed was leading that particular squad.
Another wave was sent out almost immediately, while two teams were ordered to flank me. One on either side. I almost pitied those who had broken off from the main force, as the majority of the traps I had built were not even on the road but rather in the orchard. I didn't track their progress, or take note of their deaths as my gaze was focused forward on the men charging my position.
Heedless to the danger, they plunged on, weaving around the traps already triggered and occasionally falling face first into the ones that hadn't been. This time there was little coordination, with the majority of the raiders being what amounted to poorly armed conscripts. Each wore red, and wielded weapons of lower than average quality, their purpose being to serve as meat shields for those that came after.
Hefting my warhammer up, I strode towards them, my thumping footsteps like the thunderous drums of war made manifest. Seeing me charge headlong at them, half the mass of men turned and attempted to run while the others continued forward. The result was a tangle of bodies that left them easy prey for my hammer.
A sweep from right to left caved in the chest of one man, shattered the arm of a second, and sent a third flying off into the orchard. I stepped forward, and reversed the swing, caving in the head of two men, before crushing the spine of a third. Again I stepped forward, and again I reversed my swing, battering aside on average three to six men with each sweep.
My attacks were inelegant, primitive even, but I didn't need subtlety, nor did I require much in the way of skill at the moment. With the press of bodies closing in I needed to kill as many of them as possible and this was simply the most optimal way to do so.
By the time I had cleared out the mess of red-wearing men, the true threat made itself known. Armored raiders equipped with longer spears, and commanded by someone with real experience, emerged from behind their red-adorned comrades. Unfortunately for them, I had advanced quicker than anticipated and continued my momentum straight into their line.
Bringing my hammer down, the weapon crashed into my first foe's shield, which miraculously held out against the attack, though the man's arm and face did not have such resilience however. He toppled to the side, leaving only a single enemy between me and this group's leader. I dealt with him by surging forward and delivering a kick to his armored chest, the blow sending the man flying backwards into a spike pit some fifteen feet away.
The leader didn't wait for me to strike, and made a wild swing aimed at my head, but I was far faster than him, and struck his arm with my warhammer, shattering it. The blow carried enough force behind it that the man spun a hundred and eighty degrees, exposing his back to me. A two-handed hammer blow to the back of the head blew his brains out through his nose and sent his eyes shooting out of his skull like a pair of tiny missiles.
His soldiers in disarray, I fell upon them like a pack of wounded shale hares, shattering shields and caving in armor with every hit. In only a few short seconds they were either dead or dying, removing this next obstacle from my path. I didn't have long to enjoy the small victory, as the next mass of foes were advancing on my position.
I had just enough time to set my stance when the next wave struck me.
By then they had managed to clear out or otherwise neutralize my traps, including the ones in the orchard. This meant that in only a few seconds I would be completely surrounded, though that hardly mattered.
"Come on you dogs," I spat. "Come and die."
I strode forward, swinging my hammer in wide, sweeping arcs, killing multiple men with each attack. The raider horde pressed in around me, intent on burying me under the weight of numbers. Though they'd soon find just how ineffective that strategy truly was.
My reach was significant, and made even greater by the length of my weapon. While they had spears equal in range, it was difficult to get such unruly weapons leveled while the melee was so chaotic. A few did manage to stab at me, but their attacks mostly glanced off my armor, unable to get past the steel plates I had covered myself with. One managed to slip between the plates and jab into my arm, but the wound was superficial and already healing.
Over and over, I drove forward, never slowing, and never faltering. Even as the bodies began to pile up, my kill count reached triple digits and the battle dragged on for many long minutes. They simply didn't have the coordination necessary to box me in, nor the weapons strong enough to consistently pierce my armor. A few slipped past me, and made a break for the fort, but they didn't make it far before the villagers brought them down with some well placed shots.
Confident in my ally's safety, I abandoned my position and began to push forward. My enemies had gotten used to my mostly stationary positioning however, and were caught off guard when I countercharged into their mass. My boots crushed bone and pulped organs, churning the bloody ground into a grizzly quagmire that slowed my foes but not me.
Advancing into them, their already poor morale began to suffer and I could see several of the raider horde split off, running blindly into the woods. Those who fled were not a concern of mine however, that was an honor reserved only for what few foes still stood before me. A few brave, loyal or perhaps foolish men attempted to slow me and were broken beneath the thunderous blows of my hammer.
Their strongest warriors felled and nearly three-quarters of their number dead or dying on the road, their cohesion completely shattered. Orders were screamed, and commands were given but by then there was no chance to stop the rout. Seeing what was coming, I watched as the commander took off on the back of gotle, his honor guard close at his side.
Within seconds, what few raiders remained had run off, abandoning their comrades, as well as their weapons as they made a mad dash away from me.
"Hmm," I muttered. "Best cut the head from the snake, lest he try again after he's acquired reinforcements."
With a plan in mind, I shifted my grip just below the head of my warhammer and took off full tilt into the orchard. I passed frightened soldiers, and baffled gotle riders in my sprint, but paid them no mind. I intended to strike down someone a bit more important than some poorly trained conscripted man who barely knew how to fight.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
"What the hell was that?" I shouted over my shoulder, glancing back at the road where over half my army lay either dead or dying.
"I- I don't know, commander," stuttered one of my honor guard over the thunder of hooves.
"That must have been the Lady Of Iron," murmured another.
"What?"
"I thought she was a myth," replied the second soldier, pausing to urge his gotle to go even faster. "A story to scare foundlings."
"She is very real, I fought her years ago, and though a terrifying foe she had neither the armor nor the size that she has now," murmured the leader of my guard, a grizzled older man who had participated in numerous raids over the years.
"It doesn't matter," I shouted. "Once we get back to camp, pack up my tent and retreat. Leave everything and everyone else."
In any other circumstance, my men would have questioned such an order, perhaps even insinuated that I was a coward, but now they said nothing. Grim acceptance hung over my cadre of riders as we made our way back to camp.
The bloodying ritual meant to induct me into the military set up by my uncle had been ruined, and now there was nothing for me to do but to flee. Flee and pray to all the gods above that the Lady Of Iron didn't kill me before my uncle got the chance to flay me alive for my failure.
"Sir, the camp is just up ahead!"
I perked up, and for a moment dared to believe that I would survive this day.
Then I saw her.
Adorned in blood-soaked plate armor, she stood tall enough to look me in the eye even while on the back of my gotle. Bodies littered my camp, the slain forms of my rear guard serving as a macabre carpet for what had been a place of celebration just a night ago. Held aloft by a single massive mailed hand was the head of the rear guard, his legs swinging in a desperate bid to free himself.
The enormous woman didn't seem to notice his kicking, and with a squeeze, she turned the man's skull to pulp, his headless corpse tumbling to the ground. Her foe discarded like he had been little more hten a peice of meat, she hefted her hammer and advanced on me, gaze settling on me. Her eyes blazed like twin torches of bright blue fire, their light searing my mind, and singing my very soul.
"K-kill her!" I shrieked, unable to control the tone of my voice.
My honor guard, ever loyal, did as they were ordered, though both they and I knew there would be no winning this fight. Their lives would be spent wisely, or at least that's what I told myself as I pushed my gotle to gallop hard in the direction of home. Without a second thought, I left behind both the loot gathered so far, as well as my dignity while clinging to the hope that I would escape this situation.
Seconds turned to minutes and the valley had begun to fade into the distance. Slowly but surely, I felt my confidence begin to return.
The road was flat, dry, and empty. This was perfect, I told myself.
Then something round hit me in the shoulder with enough force to knock me off my mount. I hit the ground hard, breaking something in my shoulder, and then something else in my leg. When I finally came to a stop, I was lying on my back, my gotle still sprinting off back west, completely ignorant to the fact that its rider was gone.
Groaning in pain, I struggled to rise. My hand groped about for my sword, only to find not the blade I sought but the head of my former honor guard.
"That's what hit me," I murmured grimly.
I cursed my foul luck, and was about to try standing when suddenly a shadow fell over me. My body froze, my breath turned to mud and stuck to the inside of my throat while ice coursed through my veins.
"You know I've always found raiders to be rather pitiable," she remarked, her voice oddly human.
"Wh-what?" I croaked, my treacherous eyes turning up to where the Lady of Iron loomed over me.
"If you simply devoted the resources you would have used to field this army into mining, crafting and farming, you'd see a higher average return on investment than if you had attacked your neighbors," she continued. "Plus you'd have the added benefit of not pissing off said neighbors."
I stared up at her, mouth hanging open, a confused look on my face.
"Why do I bother? There is no way a simpleton like you understood the intricacies of even the most basic aspect of market based economics," murmured the enormous woman in a disappointed tone.
The last thing that went through my head before she killed me was the realization that I knew exactly what an ant felt like before it was crushed beneath one's heel.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
As I strode back into town, I wiped my warhammer clean of skull fragments and brain using a cloth I kept in my helmet. With the weapon mostly clean, I dropped it into a loop at my belt and ran my one clean hand through my hair. I was sweaty, gross, and absolutely drenched in raider blood, the half-dried vitae clinging to everything.
"I cannot wait to have a bath," I murmured under my breath. "Hopefully, Beroea doesn't forget I'm in there again and walk in on me by accident. That girl can be so forgetful sometimes."
My hopes of getting a nice warm bath and perhaps a drink was dashed the moment I spotted a group of soldiers waiting for me near the fort. They wore the colors of Lochos, black and grey, and they were chatting with the villagers, who had left the safety of the walls.
For some reason.
"Hail, and well met," greeted the eldest of the group, a grizzled older-looking man who held the rank of captain, if his horse-hair helmet was anything to go by.
"Hail," I replied, though I stopped a few paces away, my hand resting on the head of my hammer.
"I see congratulations are in order," he continued, seemingly unbothered by my naked suspicion.
I narrowed my eyes, and took in his appearance, committing every detail to memory. His beard was mostly black though there were a few grey hairs here and there. Regardless of whether the hair was on his face or his head, it was all neatly combed and well kept. His armor was mostly black with a few strips of grey to indicate his position. He was equipped with a short blade and a round shield, though he kept his weapon in its scabbard.
He had the bearing of a man who had seen many battles, and though hardened by war, he wasn't as crusty as some others I had met over the years. His men were mostly new recruits, fresh-faced and eager, they looked up at me with awe rather than fear. Put all together, I concluded that it was unlikely he was sent here to kill me. Either that or he intended on poisoning me, or slaying me in my sleep.
Neither of which would work.
"You have my thanks by the way," he pressed on. "My lord finally relented and sent men to reinforce the valley, but we would have been too late had you not held the line."
"I did more than hold the line," I replied. "The enemy commander is dead, and their forces scattered. They will not return for at least another year, though I doubt they'll come back for some time."
"I told you she would win," Beroea hissed, a vindictive grin on her face.
"I'm glad to be wrong," the guard captain declared, extending a hand. "The name's Ariston by the way."
"I have no name, as I have yet to reach the age when you take one," I replied simply.
"Wait, how old are you?" He murmured in a confused tone.
"Six," I answered, ignoring the baffled look on his face.
I accepted the offer and shook the man's hand, being careful not to crush his fingers while still remaining firm. A solid but not overly aggressive handshake was a signature move of mine, and even in my first life, I had been a master of such a strategy.
"Quite the grip you got there," Ariston remarked, gesturing to my hammer. "I see how you manage to hold on to that enormous thing."
I snorted dismissively and said nothing.
"Would you mind if we chatted somewhere a bit more private? I had an offer to make you," Ariston inquired, glancing expectantly at Beroea.
"You could use the fort. Everyone's already gone back to their families," answered my impromptu assistant.
"Excellent. Shall we?"
I appraised him for a moment before nodding my head.
He smiled back at me and headed into the fort, showing me his back in the process. I was a bit surprised he'd leave himself so vulnerable but perhaps that was part of his game. Maybe it was all in an effort to lull me into a false sense of security so one of his men could stab me in my own back when I wasn't looking.
"So," he began, sitting down on a stump left behind in the small fort's courtyard. "About that offer."
"Let me guess, I can't refuse?" I countered.
"What? Oh, uh yeah, I suppose you could if you wanted, though I don't know why you'd turn down the opportunity to join the court of Dammekos," he muttered, an odd look on his face.
"Wait… what?"
"Yes, he sent me here to extend you an invitation. Here, I have the letter around here somewhere," the guard replied.
After a brief search of his various pockets, he produced a thin slip of paper bound with the wax seal of Lochos' ruling tyrant. I accepted it and, with some trepidation, opened it, half expecting some kind of noxious trap to spring. No such thing occurred, however, and I found a simple, ordinary letter written by someone with extraordinary penmanship.
Dear, Iron Lady.
I am writing to you today to offer you a position within my court. I have need of a capable warrior such as yourself. Furthermore I've also heard you are an expert craftsperson and artisan. I am intrigued and hope to meet you soon so we may discuss the details further. Oh and if the prospect of fame, power and glory is not enough, I've included the amount I am willing to pay you per year as well as a tidy signing bonus as a token of good faith.
"That is… a lot of zeroes," I whispered to myself.
Yours, Dammekos.
For a moment, I just sat there, too stunned to say a word.
"Don't worry. I packed our things while you were out hunting down that man," Beroea added.
"Thank you…. That is very helpful," I murmured.
"So, I assume you are interested?" Ariston pressed.
"I would need to know more before I commit to anything, but yes, I am interested," I reluctantly replied.
"Excellent, I'll gather our things and return in a moment, my lady," Beroea exclaimed.
"Wait, hold on. What do you mean by our things?" I interrupted, catching her by the elbow. "I thought you were staying here. The job is done."
"I gave my business to my younger brother. I was never a very good merchant. Honestly, I've done a better job as your servant," Beroea declared, her jovial tone fading and being replaced by a look of fearful apprehension. "Unless you would prefer I not continue to serve you."
"I…"
Thinking back on it, she was an adequate cook and made some of the best tea I've had in any of my lives. Meanwhile, I had never managed to master the chef's art and always seemed to mess something up whenever I attempted to brew my own drinks. Plus, she had been at my right hand for the last two weeks, dutifully carrying out my orders without complaint or hesitation.
Plus, she was easy on the eyes.
"I suppose so long as my potential employer is alright with it," I finally replied.
"I don't see why not. The domicile assigned to you is large enough for multiple concubines," Ariston remarked.
"She is not my concubine," I deadpanned.
"Ahh, apologies. It seems as though my attempt at humour has fallen flat," Ariston murmured with a shrug.
Beroea must have been as annoyed as I was by the suggestion, as her face was bright red and she was biting her bottom lip quite hard.
"Shall we go?" I offered.
"Not staying for your victory feast?" Ariston inquired, raising a curious eyebrow.
"No. I've received my pay. I need nothing else," I dismissed.
"Then by all means. We can leave immediately," Ariston stated.
"Just wait a moment. I'll be right back with our stuff!" Beroea exclaimed before racing off.
I frowned deeply, unsure if I had just made the worst decision of this life, or the best.