Prologue
The group of mounted warriors stopped at the top of the hill. Below them spread out was a large village. A young fresh faced warrior nudged his horse forward so that he was next to the lead rider. “What do we do, Uncle?” he asked him. The man seemed to ignore him. The young warrior’s uncle had long black hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a band of silver. His face was heavily scarred.
“We follow our orders.” The man turned and called out a name. A grim faced rider rode forward; in his hand he held a lance. At his side hung a curved sabre whilst a shield was strapped to his saddle.
“Ride down there and find out what tribe they are, then return here.” The man was about to spur his horse down the hill. “Don’t make it obvious what we are, Tinar. Claim you are a wanderer, buy some food in the inn and have a few ales. Then return.” The man nodded.
“I will do as you say, Delund.” Tinar trotted his horse down the slope and towards the village.
Delund signalled to the fifty warriors back down the hill, where they set up a small camp and began about there mid day meal. Delund ordered that no fires should be lit. Delund sent one of his men up to the top of the hill as a sentry. The men were uneasy. Ever since the war had started the men had followed every command given and had especially relished in spilling the blood of the hated enemy. Yet they hated waiting, anything could have descended upon them in that small space of time that they spent waiting. Some of the men lay down and caught a few minutes sleep.
After an hour Tinar came galloping over the hill. “Broken Lances!” He called. The men moved instantly, running to mounts, readying lances and unsheathing swords. Delund mounted his own horse his young nephew beside him, he dragged his own curved sabre from its sheath.
“All right lads. Kill all the men, have some fun with the women, after that we can sell them to the slavers.”
The assembled men whooped and cheered, the prospect of money always increased the skill of the fighter. Delund spurred his horse and galloped up the hill, behind him Came fifty battle hardened warriors and he knew they would not let him down in the coming fight. In just a few seconds they were charging headlong down the hill, towards the village.
“Tinar, the fields!” Tinar and ten men peeled off and began towards the village fields.
Then they entered the village. Delund steered his horse straight at a tall villager who held a broom in front of him as if he were to use it to defend himself. Delund’s sabre flashed in the midday sun. A head fell to the compacted dirt. A broom next to it. Delund swung his leg over the horse and slid from the saddle. A man ran towards him, a meat cleaver in his hand. Ducking under the swinging implement he skewered the man’s heart. Delund ran to the village inn. All about him his men were chasing down the village men and smashing open houses to get at the loot within. A few had hauled some of the woman into the village hall and were, as Delund instructed, having some fun with them.
Delund kicked the Inn door open and stepped inside. Three women were cowering in the corner whilst a man stood in front of them. In his meaty hands he held a wood axe. “Get out you murderous wretch or I shall split your head wide open.” Delund laughed viciously and slashed the air in complicated patterns, his sabre moved so fast that the innkeeper’s faced blanched. The skill of Delund was legendary within all the tribes of Ruran. He had fought fifty-three men in single combat and all had died in a slow agonizing manner. Then Delund had taken their weapons and their little fingers, these were the rituals handed down by his father and his father before that. Moving forward he began to make his sword patterns more complicated. The Innkeeper attacked with the axe. Delund swayed out of its path his sword sliced the man across the stomach spilling his entrails to the floor, the Innkeeper dropped the axe and tried to catch them but they slipped through his fingers. He screamed in agony as he fell to the ground. To begin teh filthy buisness of dying. One of the women screamed and ran to her husband’s side.
“Where is the gold?” Delund asked. None answered him. “Tell me now or she dies.” Delund held his bloodied sword above the widow.
Blood dripped from the blade landing in her grey hair. The youngest girl spoke up.
“In the cellar.” Delund smiled. Slamming his sabre down he ended the sobbing widow’s life. Two of his men appeared in the doorway, they looked over the scene and spotted the two young pretty women. Faces split wide with grins they looked at Delund.
“Can we, Chief?” Their swords were bloodied. Obviously they had done there part in the slaughter. “Go on, Chief. They would fetch a nice price to the slavers.” One of the men urged him. Delund looked like he was considering it.
“All right then, don’t take the gold in the basement, that is mine.” Advancing on the women the two men whooped and sheathed their swords. Delund left the Inn, he would return for the gold later.
All about him his men were dragging women into somewhere private to enjoy the pleasures victory brought. Delund faced the sky and let out a huge scream. He still lived.
.
. 53 men. Ok, he's tough, but that tough?! Kinda makes it boring with an invincible person. 'Slow agonizing manner': Well, I think it's a bit cliche here. It really tells rather than shows here. 'Father and his father before that': Well, lets keep modern cliches out of this. THere's no need to write it and it doesn't really help.
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 75