Death to the King

Chapter 2: Braddur



The wind howled with wrath as snow plummeted from the sky. It descended heavily onto small trees that were littered over a desolate frozen land. Thousands of men in violet clustered around small campfires under the few trees that existed to protect themselves from the harsh and unforgivable weather.

A large man with brown hair wrapped in a scarf struggled to one of the camp fires as he cradled twigs and wood in his arms. “Bloody freezing,” Complained Private Pleoh. He dropped some of the twigs and wood into the fire as he watched it ignite.

Private Braddur Selwin was fed up of the cold. He was also fed up of the wind but most of all he was fed up of the moaning. Why join the army if you weren’t willing to test yourself? Braddur was cold just as much as anyone else but there were bigger dangers here than the damn weather.

This was Frostholme and the inhabitants were the enemy. A lot of the Stormsand soldiers seemed to have forgotten that. They’d rather moan about the cold or how hungry they were, thought Braddur. No doubt half the men he was with hadn’t even seen a battle, let alone participated in one. Braddur hadn’t either but he was a soldier and that was what he joined up for. To fight, not to sit and moan like a little girl.

Braddur watched as the fire slowly started to die out. “We’ll need more wood soon.”

Pleoh’s eyes flared. “Then go get some! It’s always me getting the fucking wood. Not like there’s enough wood in this shithole.”

“Stop your whining Pleoh or I will have you digging latrines in the snow,” Said Sergeant Clover, a ginger haired man who served with the army for the past twenty years.

Pleoh sat down, glaring at the ground. Fucking cunt, Braddur accidently listened in on Pleoh’s thoughts. He didn’t mean to but sometimes it just happened as if he just accidently prowled in on his parents making love. If he wanted to he could listen in on anybody’s thoughts but he chose not to. Sometimes he would hear the most inappropriate things that would make liking people a hard thing for him to do. Some people may like the ability to eavesdrop on others but Braddur considered it a disability. And the less people who knew of it the better.

Corporal Tilian Paige grinned at Pleoh. “Cheer up, you fat bastard. Tomorrow you’ll be so busy that you’ll probably hardly even notice the cold. Even if you do feel the cold then I wouldn’t worry much either. You’re useless so I doubt you’ll last ten minutes.” A few soldiers sat around the camp fire howled with laughter. Braddur didn’t like Tilian; the man was rude, obnoxious and way too cocky. Unlike most of the Stormsand soldiers who had bronze skin, Tilian seemed to be as pasty as the snow. He had brown, rumpled hair that fell down to his shoulders. His brown eyes were far apart from each other that he looked more like a frog than a human. The corporal always seemed to be smiling with his crooked, yellow teeth; as if he believed everyone was below him.

Crazy Darel laughed. “Because you’ve seen much action, Tilian,”

“I didn’t earn my chevrons by luck. I had to earn them. It’s not like I grabbed them out of a bleeding piss pot.” Tilian looked slyly at Sergeant Clover to see if he was watching, “Unlike some people.” They roared with laughter again, Crazy Darel the loudest amongst them all.

I wouldn’t be too surprised if you became a corporal by cleaning piss pots your entire life, thought Braddur. The Private picked up the last pieces of wood and tossed them into the dying fire and watched it surge upwards. “Hey Sergeant, when are they thought to attack again?”

Sergeant Clover studied Braddur with his dark eyes. “How many times have we been through this? The scouts have reported that a large enemy force is on route and should be here in the early hours of the morning. Our regiment and the 25th will muster on the Mammoth road and will be used as bait but the bastards will get surprised attacked on both flanks by the remaining forces. They’ll get destroyed. No prisoners unless they are commissioned and no mercy for any men from the ranks. We don’t have enough rations for their army as well as our own.”

Braddur didn’t ask for a battle plan that he already knew but he decided to hold his tongue, the Sergeant was a stormy man. “Sounds like a stupid plan to me.”

“You scared Private Selwin?” Tilian the little shit grinned, revealing his yellow teeth.

Sergeant Clover interrupted. “Our job is to follow orders, not to question them. General Abrecan and his officers have decided that this plan would fool the enemy so it’s our job to have faith in their abilities. But yes in my opinion, it’s a damned awful plan and I am sure to pray to the gods that the enemy is foolish enough to walk into our trap.”

The few people sat around the campfire shuffled awkwardly when the Sergeant said that. Everyone had it on their minds but the Sergeant had only reinforced their opinions.

“Why do we have to be bloody used as bait?” Private Pleoh whined.

“Go get some more wood, Pleoh,” Sergeant Clover ordered.

Pleoh muttered something under his breath as he stood up but it seemed he would obey as he stormed off with his head down. Braddur considered amusing himself listening in to his thoughts but he decided against it. Sometimes he’d accidently listen in on peoples thoughts and found it difficult resisting the urge to continue doing so.

Private Stefn Lyn clapped his hands and waited until everyone had turned their heads. “This reminds me of the battle of 67’ or was it 68’? No definitely 67’… We tricked ‘em at Ireeli with the same tactic but it was my idea! I told General Penrith my idea, god rest his soul and he listened to it and said ‘that’s a great plan, Private! We shall use that!’ we won the battle but the general took the credit for it. The damned bastard.” Stefn looked offended. “I imagine that’s where Abrecan got his plan from.” Stefn Lyn considered himself an old dog within the army and that he was, he served the army for twenty five years. However he was also known as Tales from the men in the ranks for the past twenty five years also.

“I’m surprised you’re not at least a Colonel by now,” Said Crazy Darel.

“I should’ve earned a battle field commission in 58’ but I wasn’t a Sergeant so they offered me money instead,” Explained Stefn Lyn.

A battle field commission was a rare occurrence in which a man from the ranks could get promoted to become an officer. He had to show valor and bravery in combat but also needed to be a Sergeant or above to meet the criteria. Braddur knew of only one officer.

Just when Stefn was about to open up his mouth to spout more nonsense, something caught his eye. When Braddur turned his head to see what he was looking at, he saw a tall man on a white horse being trailed by two menacing looking shaggy dogs with black fur. The man sat on the horse had sandy colored hair down to his shoulders and despite his long hair there was a visible horrendous scar where his right ear used to be. Under his thin eyebrows, he had hazel colored eyes that looked angry and resentful. His sword scabbard clattered against his leg as his horse plodded forward. Braddur couldn’t see his epaulettes as he was wearing a huge greatcoat but it was plainly obvious that this man was an officer. But why did Tales take such interest in the man?

“I think Tales is in love,” Jested Tilian.

Stefn gasped. “It’s him!”

Sergeant Clover sighed. “Captain Garr Bloodwind.”

“Who?” Braddur had to ask.

“The man you see there was a young lord of a rich and powerful family that happened to be cousins to the Godafrid’s. Unfortunately for the Bloodwind’s they thought that high treason was a good idea to win the throne. Every member of the family was executed apart from Captain Bloodwind over there who was sentenced to join the army until he died. The only reason he escaped execution was because he had no part whatsoever in the high treason crime.”

Braddur felt pity for the Captain. He never knew his own family but he could understand how the man felt.

“What were those two dogs with him?” Asked Darel.

Stefn Lyn seemed happy to answer that. “’E’ saved those two dogs on the in the battle of 74’. Since then they have become his loyal companions and fought by his side in every battle ‘e’s had since. Some say he killed their previous owner, some say he summoned them from the hells itself.”

Tilian eye-balled him. “You do talk some shit at times.”

There wasn’t much else for Braddur to do other than to sleep. He was getting fed up of the moaning, the made up stories and the cold and the wind. He also felt a ting of nervous excitement about tomorrow’s battle. He wrapped up in his greatcoat and sleeping bag.

He dreamt he was on a horse galloping forwards. He lifted up his sword and swung down at a dark faced man who held his arms up trying to shield himself from the oncoming slash. The sword cut through him as if he was butter and the man fell to the floor in a mess of blood, bone and flesh. He was quick to parry a slash to his left but all the sudden he was surrounded by three horsemen. They attacked in fury and Braddur parried as much as he physically could. Alas it was too much for him to handle and he felt a sharp pain on the right hand side of his face. His heart started to race and before he knew what was happening another dark faced man was dragging him off his horse so he sank into the sand.

Braddur woke up and touched his right ear. It was only a dream. When I’m fighting I won’t be on a horse, I’ll be in the front rank and I’ll do what I’ve been trained best to do. To kill. He fell asleep again.

When Braddur awoke the next morning, the snowing had stopped but the cold air still stung his face. It had been a two hour march to the Mammoth road, yet he still felt tired and groggy from last night’s sleep. Seven hundred and fifty men stood in the front rank on the road and seven hundred and fifty men were stationed behind them. On either side of the men rose steep snowy hills that would have been difficult to run up if anyone was foolish enough to desert. There were junior officers and Sergeants at the very front of the ranks and the most senior officers were at the back.

Braddur himself was in the front rank. He struggled to prevent the thoughts of his comrades flooding in. Aside from the fact that Braddur himself was almost pissing his breeches, all his comrades feared for their own lives and could only pray they’d get out of this alive. No, must not listen in. I can’t have any distractions.

“Sergeant’s, prepare the men! Have them load their rifles and have their bayonets fitted!” bellowed the Colonel from behind.

Clover was one of the Sergeants. “Alright, lads, you heard the Colonel, load!”

Braddur did what he was trained to do. All the measurements were prepared the day before. Tilting his banan rifle so the muzzle pointed upwards, Braddur scrounged through his ammo pouch and grabbed the charge. Tearing the top of the charge with his teeth, he tasted the salt and bit down on the rifle bullet. He poured the powder down the barrel and spat the bullet into it shortly after. Braddur then grabbed his ramrod out of his utility belt and shoved it all down the barrel so it was sat at the bottom. Finally he grabbed a different type of powder from his belt and poured it into the pan of the rifle. Braddur cocked the rifle. All the training comes down to this, thought Braddur. Though he was expecting the two flanks to come in and obliterate the enemy forces, there was still a possibility he and his fellow soldiers may be needed to help in the battle.

“Private Pleoh, quicker next time! Alright lads, fix bayonets!” ordered Sergeant Clover.

Braddur took his bayonet out of his utility belt and slid it in place on the top of the rifle so that it clicked.

After forty minutes, they came.

It seemed to Braddur that there were thousands of them. A mass of vagabonds marching steadily towards sixteen hundred or so men. Unlike the Stormsand army, they didn’t seem to have any discipline. Almost every one of them was out of step and out of line. The people who were in command were striding at the very front of the ranks at a quick pace with red girdles tied around their waist. All of the Frostholme soldiers were dressed differently also. They were wrapped up heavily in a variety of different bleak colored scarfs and robes, colors Braddur didn’t even know existed. The Frostholme had their own weapons of sorts. Some had rifles that Braddur had never seen before but most carried swords, axes or scythes. However they seemed to outnumber the 22nd and the 25th regiment by so much that their weapons could actually pose a huge threat. They were about five hundred yards away.

As they got closer, Braddur heard their chanting. “Mear!”

“Mear!”

“Mear, mear, mear!”

“Mear!”

If you were to hear them you would suppose they sounded more like a horde of cats marching towards you rather than a great army of Frostholme.

“S-shouldn’t the flanks be here by now?” Somebody from the ranks asked.

“Yeah, where the hells are they?” Somebody else screamed.

Braddur wondered the same thing. Where were the flanks that were supposed to surprise attack the Frostholme forces? They should have arrived by now. He felt his heart begin to beat as his body began to quiver.

“Stop your bickering! Front rank, get ready!” Sergeant Clover growled. The other Sergeants imitated the order.

Braddur aimed his rifle. Okay, must keep calm, thought Braddur.

“Aim low and wait until my command!” yelled the Colonel.

They waited and waited and still the flanks didn’t arrive to save the day. They were getting dangerously close now and Braddur could see some enemy soldier’s smashing their fists against their chests.

“Fire!” screamed the Colonel.

The seven hundred and fifty men of the first rank pulled their triggers. There was a crackling roar as the muzzles of the banan rifles were set alight.

The butt of the rifle slammed into Braddur’s shoulders, he was used to the kickback from months of training so it didn’t seem to hurt him much. He did however have trouble seeing past the smoke fog that the banan rifles caused. He wondered if he had struck anyone but judging by the screams, groans and moans, at least a hundred people were struck down.

“Front rank load!”

Along with his comrades, Braddur crouched down and started to load his rifle. He knew he had to remain calm but he also knew had to do it as quickly as possible. Just like the way he had been taught in training.

“Second rank fire!”

Braddur heard the deafening roar of the banan rifles as the rounds flew overhead. He finished loading his rifle, stood up and waited for the orders.

Braddur had expected the next order to be ‘front rank fire’ but when the order ‘second rank load’ didn’t come he soon came to realize that he wouldn’t be ordered to fire. Beyond the smoke there was screaming and panic as men were scurrying about. Enemy gunfire was going off beyond the smoke but the rounds were flying way off target as all rounds flew overhead. Braddur glanced to his right and saw Sergeant Clover grin.

“Forward!” yelled the Colonel.

Braddur didn’t expect that order.

Braddur, along with the rest of the 22nd and 25th, marched slowly through the smoke with their rifles aimed ahead and still in line. Braddur had wondered if he was to be struck down by a smirking soldier ready for him on the other side but what he did see he just couldn’t comprehend.

It was complete and utter disaster on Frostholme’s behalf. While hundreds of their soldiers lay dead on the floor, most of them were running away! Or trying to at least. The Majority of them were tripping themselves up or tripping up over dead bodies. While only a small number of them screamed at them trying to get themselves back in order.

And the order Braddur had hoped to come, came. “Charge! Get the bastards!”

Braddur screamed along with everyone else as they sprinted towards the enemy, the enemy soldiers faces full of shock and dismay. Horsemen galloped ahead to get to their prey before everyone else. Braddur could hear barking and howling as he ran.

Braddur found his first victim, a man who was trying to drag a fallen comrade away from the mess. The man, rather than attacking, held his rifle in the air in hopes of blocking any forthcoming attacks that might befall him. Braddur at first feigned with his rifle, swinging it downwards. However he redirected it and speared the rifle under the enemy soldier’s own rifle, digging his bayonet deep into the poor man’s gullet causing blood to pump out of his throat.

Some of the Frostholme forces were trying to fight back but the men who once outnumbered the Stormsand forces were now finding themselves outnumbered three to one. Braddur looked to his left and saw a Stormsand soldier fire a round point blank into one of the enemy’s faces as his head exploded into clutter of skull, hair, blood and brain onto the snow.

Braddur heard the crunch of snow behind him and urgently turned around as a bearded soldier held an axe high towards him. Braddur jumped backwards and the axe missed him by an inch. He thrust his bayonet hard into the bearded man’s chest and forced the bayonet through a gap in the ribcage. Pulling the trigger, he heard the thundering roar as smoke almost consumed him. Braddur struggled to yank the bloody bayonet out of the dead body, the smell of burnt flesh almost making him gag. The dead soldier slumped onto the floor in a muddle of blood, bone, tissue and flesh.

Braddur heard a cry and faced right to witness Private Pleoh being impaled by a sword and then being lifted upwards by perhaps the biggest, most hairy man he had ever laid his eyes on. With only one arm the man lifted Pleoh from the ground as if he was perhaps a little toddler being raised by his father. The hairy man dropped Pleoh onto the ground and screamed a war cry as he lifted his bloody sword toward the cold sky.

A horseman galloped to the hairy man with his own sword in hand ready to strike him down. Unfortunately for the horseman, the hairy man was quicker and struck both of the horse’s front legs. The horse and the horseman both tumbled headfirst into the snow.

As the rider struggled to move, it took Braddur only a moment to realize that the horseman was Captain Garr Bloodwind!

The hairy soldier screamed another war cry and held his sword in the air as the sun bounced off the steel. The hairy soldier then held his sword with both hands in the air, ready to hack down at Garr Bloodwind. Braddur sprinted towards him in a state of blind rage; he had to save Captain Bloodwind from this man, he just had to. Just as the hairy soldier started slashing down to finish off Garr, Braddur was able to tackle the man to the ground, his rifle still gripped firmly in his right hand.

A small shiny stone fell out of the man’s pockets. Braddur looked at his opponent as he gradually stood up. The hairy man stared at Braddur in a state of amusement as he said something in a foreign tongue that Braddur could not understand. The man held his sword towards Braddur and started to hop about on his left leg. Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, thought Braddur.

He jumped on his left leg towards Braddur slowly and clumsily as he started to cackle manically. Braddur looked around quickly in hope of help. He realized that he was on his own and that he had to fight this beast of a man himself.

The hairy man swung first trying to cut Braddur in half, but Braddur was able to leap backwards. The hairy man then said something else in a foreign tongue and laughed so loud that the gods were bound to hear him. Braddur thrust his rifle forward in a hope of goring him through the guts but the hairy man parried the rifle away with his bare hand. The hairy man swung again. This time in an upwards to down movement but lucky for Braddur, he was able to avoid the blow by stepping aside as the sword crashed into the snow.

Braddur thrust again. This time instead of the hairy man parrying with his bare hand, he snatched the rifle and yanked it towards him, yanking the bayonet over his right shoulder. The man kicked Braddur in the stomach, driving his breath away. He then used the butt of Braddur’s musket to crunch his nose, causing his nose to erupt into a bloody mess on his face. The hairy man shoved him to the ground so he was looking at the clouds.

Tears streamed down Braddur’s face as he struggled to breath, feeling dizzy and disorientated. He looked up at the hairy man as he cackled again as he held his sword with both hands into the air.

Before he could bring the blade down, the hairy man gurgled and spat blood. In shock he looked down and saw a sharp sword through his guts as his intestines spilled onto the snow. He fell to his knees and looked at Braddur one last time before collapsing.

Braddur looked up and saw Captain Garr Bloodwind looking tired and bloodied. “I believe this is yours.” He threw a shiny stone towards Braddur. “I believe it fell out of your pockets when you tried to save my life.”

Private Braddur Selwin picked up the stone and saw how in the sunlight it radiated a purple glow.









Chapter 4





Tilian Paige didn’t plan to run away.

However seeing the horde of barbarians marching towards him almost made him shit his breeches and before he knew it, his legs had a mind of their own. Everyone was so focussed on the enemy forces that they didn’t even notice him slipping away. Technically it wasn’t even his fault. If that fool, Sergeant Clover didn’t scare the living hells out of him with that story of his then why would he have run away? I’m a bleeding deserter now, thought Tilian, now there’s only the rope waiting for me. He could never go back to the army, never.

Tilian had hoped he would come across more deserters during his escape. Unfortunately the only deserter he came across was a man from the 25th who seemed to twitch uncontrollably every time he was spoken to.

“M-my name, corporal, is Desmond.” He twitched so badly that Tilian feared he was going to have a heart attack.

Tilian rolled his eyes. If this was the best he could find, then he might aswell make do. “Look I already told you. Stop calling me ‘corporal’, we no longer serve the army. Call me Tilian or Tills.” Tilian gave a reassuring smile.

“Y-yes, corp… I m-mean sorry corporal. W-won’t happen again,” Desmond twitched.

Tilian frowned. Was this Desmond the type of person he had become? Tilian was already useless at everything else in life. And was he now a useless soldier aswell to top things off? He’d been seen as useless by everyone and everything throughout his miserable twenty seven years of life. Not even his parents had wanted anything to do with him; sending him to an orphanage when he was only three years old. I might aswell have cunt tattooed on my forehead, thought Tilian.

The former corporal tightened up his greatcoat, slung his rifle around his back and had a good glance around at his surroundings. Tilian and Desmond were stood on a rocky footpath of a very steep hill as it overlooked the great snowy plains, looking desolate apart from the many snow covered trees and few frozen streams that populated the land. Far to his left was a frozen waterfall that sparkled as the cloud covered sun began to fall, surrounded by a steep and craggy mountain. Beyond the rocky footpath was a route to another treacherous looking mountain that seemed to be the more sheer and harsh mountain of the two. Boulders and small rocks made thunderous crashes as they shattered on the jagged rocks. It had stopped snowing early during the morning but the cold air still made Tilian shiver. Where the bleeding hells are we?

He couldn’t see any animals or vegetation he could use as food either. While he was living with the army, he’d see the occasional snow fox, woolly horse or rabbit wandering around. However the army always made sure that their men were well fed so Tilian had no need to hunt for food. Now was different. He needed to hunt or he’d die a slow and agonizing death but if he was foolish enough to retrace his footsteps then there was a good chance he’d run into his former comrades. They’re probably looking for me now, realised Tilian, if I bump into any of them then I will have to kill them. No questions asked. Wouldn’t want anybody ratting me out and bringing more people to search for me. He thought about who he’d enjoy to kill the most. Pleoh, Sergeant Clover or Selwin, Tilian admitted. Pleoh was a whiny little shit who was just a waste of space. Sergeant Clover thought he knew everything and always seemed to undermine everybody. And Selwin seemed to think everybody was his friend when he was just a mere little private.

“U-um, excuse me? Corporal?” asked Desmond.

“Yes, what’s the matter?”

Desmond twitched. “I-it will be n-nightfall soon. W-we should find some place to stay t-the night,” Desmond suggested.

Tilian waited until Desmond had stopped twitching. “And where the bleeding hells do you suggest staying?” Tilian didn’t know how to light a fire and he didn’t fancy sleeping in the open cold with no way of keeping warm.

“F-further ahead,” Desmond said as he pointed his shaking finger north, “I-in the mountains. T-there’s bound to be a crevice or a cave we could stay the night.”

Tilian almost face palmed himself, how was this bumbling fool able to come up with such an idea but he wasn’t? It was common sense. They’d move forward into the mountains and find a cave to sleep the night. Then in the morning they’d move out and venture deeper into Frostholme, until they could find some kind of civilisation.

The former corporal began walking towards the mountain beyond the rocky path. “Alright, let’s move on.”

Desmond twitched as he trailed behind, jerking as he looked around the landscape. “E-excuse me? Corporal? D-do you think there’s any people in this area?”

Tilian grinned. “How would I bleeding know? But if anyone is foolish enough to confront us.” Tilian grabbed his rifle and displayed it to Desmond. “I take it you know how to use one of these?”

“O-of course. I’ve had training j-just like anybody else.”

Tilian frowned. He couldn’t even have a joke with this man. He sure wished it was Crazy Darel or Barclay walking by his side and not this twitching buffoon. It was no wonder that this cretin of a man had deserted his regiment. He couldn’t even hold a conversation, how in bleeding hells would he of been expected to hold his position in battle?

As the duo approached the mountain, a white eagle soared in the sky, half hidden by the cloudy sky. Tilian saw how the rocky footpath had continued on through the snowy mountain and how the snow started to cause the footpath to dwindle away. I better be careful, realised Tilian, one misstep and that could be the end of me.

And it started to snow again. Tilian was careful step by step but he struggled to see ahead of him as the snow pelted into his face. He almost slipped backwards but Desmond was able to catch him in time and prevent him from falling. They continued to walk and walk and almost slip as the wind shrieked.

“Corporal?” Desmond almost shouted.

Tilian even struggled to see Desmond as they were showered with snowballs. “I’m over here! What is it?”

Desmond got so close to Tilian that he could see his anxious eyes. “Look!” He pointed above to where Tilian could barely see a small cave. “L-lets climb-“

“Are you mad?” Tilian interrupted, “Do you see how high it is? If we should fall…”

And he started to climb, leaving Tilian behind. Tilian saw how Desmond scaled up the jagged rocks and how his hands and feet were finding cracks and openings with ease. When he got to the top, he looked down. “Come on!”

Tilian hesitated and then he went for it. He jumped grabbing one of the cracks with his right hand and then he placed his left hand on another crack.

Then he slipped. He wailed as he banged his left leg on one of the rocks as he collapsed into the snow. “Bleeding fucking hells!”

“Jump up and grab my hands!” screamed Desmond as he leant down.

Tilian jumped, clutching onto Desmond’s bony arms. As Desmond pulled Tilian up, his feet found holes and gaps to aid him as he clambered upwards.

Desmond heaved Tilian one last time, pulling him onto another layer of the mountain. The two of them both tumbled backwards into the snow. Tilian stood up scowling, his left leg feeling like jelly.

Tilian saw light coming from the cave. He didn’t know why there was light coming from the cave but all that mattered at the moment was he needed shelter and he needed it now. “Come on, follow me!” yelled Tilian.

Both of them dashed into the small cave. When Tilian entered the cave, he noticed there were two braziers against the wall. There was also a furred rug of some white beast he’d never seen before, a straw mattress, a wooden closet and a wooden drawer. Somebody is living here, Tilian realised.

Desmond looked around in awe. “C-corporal? This is s-somebodies-“

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Tilian said. But who is living here?

Tilian first inspected the wooden closet, forcing the sturdy door open. Inside was a heap of woollen and furred clothing. He placed his rifle against the wall to his left and removed his greatcoat. One of those will keep me warmer than my piece of shit excuse of a coat, Tilian thought as he tossed his greatcoat aside. He slid on a furry pelt over his violet jacket, concealing his corporal chevrons. It was a little bit large and awkward to wear, but it would do.

Tilian then looked inside the wooden drawer, forcing open the drawer as the hinges creaked. Inside was a portrait, a few copper coins, a few silver coins, a letter, a quill and an inkpot. Tilian firstly snatched the coins and placed them in his pockets. Money was always useful, especially in a country which he didn’t understand. He put aside the letter as he couldn’t read and besides even if he could, surely it’d only be in foreign gibberish anyway? He took the portrait and examined it. It was of an elderly man sat on a horse, looking belligerent with his sword and shield, yet at the same time looking noble with his golden clothing and golden jewellery. Tilian threw it into the brazier, watching the portrait slowly smoulder into ashes.

Tilian turned around and grinned. “You taken anything you might need?”

“U-um, what if he c-comes back?” Desmond twitched.

“Then he’s in for a bleeding surprise,” Tilian said, “We won’t stay here long anyway. We’ll leave as soon as the weather has passed. Find us a nice little town or village and live there for a bit. I got us some money, you see. Should be able to buy us some food and a place to stay for a little while.” Tilian sat down on the mattress, resting his back against the wall.

Desmond twitched as he sat down against the drawer. “What if there’s more of them?”

Tilian considered that a moment. “We are soldiers,” Tilian went on, “Or ex-soldiers as we are now. They are people living up in the mountains armed with probably nothing worse than a shovel. Who do you think has better odds?”

“I s-suppose that’s true,” Desmond agreed.

And then a woman walked into the cave, her blue eyes wide open. She was a large woman who looked even larger because of her woolly coat. Strands of golden hair had fallen out of her furred hood to land over her thin eyebrows. She was holding in her gloved hands a stack of wood. She said something in a foreign language that neither Tilian nor Desmond understood.

Tilian quickly sprang to where his rifle was and aimed it at the woman, causing her to drop her stack of wood. “Desmond, walk behind the lass and push her further towards me,” Tilian ordered.

Desmond obeyed. He aimed his rifle as he crept with caution as if he was circling a lioness ready to spring on him. He stood behind the shaking woman and urged her forward with his rifle. “M-move!”

The woman moved closer to where Tilian was stood. I haven’t had a woman in gods know how long, Tilian licked his lips. “Desmond, wait outside.”

“W-wait outside, corporal?” Desmond asked, confused.

“Yes, wait outside! Go!” Tilian snapped.

Desmond scurried away, leaving Tilian and this woman alone in the room. She’s a little large but she’ll do, Tilian grinned.

Tilian used his left hand to go under his new furred coat and to search in his utility belt for his bayonet. He took it out. The ten inch sharpened blade shimmered from the light from the braziers. He dropped his rifle to the floor, hearing it thud. “Lay down.”

The large woman didn’t obey. “I said lay down!” he screamed. Tilian placed his right leg behind the woman’s own legs and shoved her to the floor. He bent over and tore off her woolly trousers down to her ankles, hearing her wail.

Tilian unbuttoned his breeches. “It must be a rare occurrence for you. Getting banged by a corporal from the Stormsand army. You might even have a wee little nipper inside of you, once all this is done.” Tilian grinned.

He laid on top of her, with the his bayonet still gripped firmly in his left hand. He started to lick her pale face.

Then she flung him off herself. Tilian’s cock dangled out of his breeches as he crashed headfirst into the closet.

Tilian was then finding himself being dragged by his legs, his head cracked on a rock as he got pulled back to the centre of the room. When Tilian opened his eyes he saw the woman with a smile on her face, holding his bayonet.

She said something in a foreign tongue and then stamped on Tilian’s cock, twisting it with the heel of her boot. Tilian cried in agony.

The large woman then stamped on Tilian’s ribs multiple times, causing them to shatter, taking the breath out of him. She stomped on Tilian’s cock one last time before pulling up her trousers, picking up his rifle and walking out of the room.

It took Tilian a moment to get back to his senses. He sat up and spat vomit onto the ground. He then used his old greatcoat to wipe off some of the sick off his face. Tilian stood up but he felt a shooting pain in his left leg. Damn that bleeding fall earlier. He sobbed as the pain shot up to his ribcage. That fucking bitch is dead. He finally tucked his manhood back into his breeches. Thank the bleeding gods that it’s still intact, Tilian thought.

Tilian limped outside into the snow. “Where are you, you fucking bitch?” Tilian yelled.

He looked left and right but he couldn’t see Desmond anywhere. He didn’t have time to look for Desmond aswell as the woman, so Tilian decided he’d track down the woman first, get his weapons back and then find Desmond.

Tilian looked down at the snow and saw footsteps going right. Tilian limped as he followed the footsteps, feeling pain in every step he took. As soon as I find you, you fucking whore, I’m going to take my rifle back and shove it up your arse, thought Tilian.

And then he saw Desmond. Twitching and shaking from a noose around his neck, hanging off a ledge. Tilian approached it slowly when realisation dawned on him that he’d been set up.

Dozens of men and women all came out from behind rocks, ledges and corners, all with rifles aimed towards Tilian. All Tilian could do was raise his hands in the air.

Then he saw the woman he’d been searching for. Stood next to one of the riflemen, blowing a kiss at Tilian.

One of the men approached Tilian and said something in a foreign tongue.

“No speak.” Tilian waved his arms about. “Your language. I from Stormsand.”

The man lowered his rifle and looked at one of his men and spoke to him in his odd language. Tilian felt a pang of relief. It looked like they wouldn’t be killing him, after all. It was a shame for poor Desmond but Tilian would make sure to pray to the gods.

The woman nodded at the man.

The man looked at Tilian and then cracked Tilian’s head with the butt of the rifle. Tilian was enveloped in darkness.