Born a Monster

443 443 – Battle of Bloody Tears

To watch centaurs fighting other centaurs, a wheel of death going clockwise, surrounding another wheel going counter, is a thing of horror. At the speeds they were going, my eyes could barely track. Then add that to the velocity of arrows fired, and it became bloody chaos.

“They’re... are centaurs fighting each other?” Imperious asked.

“Better than fighting us.” Basilicus said. “Let’s leave while they’re distracted, just go around.”

Basilicus nudged Maximus. “Boss?”

“She’s beautiful.” Maximus eventually replied.

She?

“Just look at her, the way she wields a maul....”

“Uma.” I said.

“Uma.” Maximus repeated, still not actually seeing anything.

.....

“Our numbers are too small.” I said. “I know you want to turn the tide of this battle...”

“What? Battle?” he said, snapping back to himself. “We have to save her! Forward!”

“Maximus! NO!” Basilicus said, grabbing him and turning him to one side. “There is no victory here, we’ve too many civilians, and not enough trained warriors.”

“FORWARD!” and he charged. Without his friends, he charged. Without an army he charged.

“Well, crap.” said Imperious, joining him.

Basilicus snorted, waved with his axe, and trailed them.

I ended up somewhat behind them, but well in front of the remnants.

It was mad; it was doomed. Thirty soldiers don’t just charge into over a hundred. It just doesn’t happen.

That alone must have bought us a volley or so of distance, before the arrows started pelting us. It was impossible for my shield to be everywhere. Where it wasn’t, the centaurs were dealing out between eight and sixteen base damage. They were using up to strength 4 venoms and poisons. I didn’t even have time to count the scrolling messages.

My health went to yellow, and then orange, and then red.

And then, the Flash Step happened.

Three metal roadblocks the size and shape of minotaurs appeared in the midst of the charging outer circle. They were armored in plate; the centaurs had lances. They were three, and two were swept away or perhaps ridden down. But when I rose battered and bloody, only Basilicus, soaked in his own blood and that of others, was standing amid the storm.

“Ah, fuck no.” I said, mingling with the masses.

It was doomed, but we still charged toward the side of the circle of death. And it split off nearly at the halfway point, one flow pressed closer to their kin, the other casting itself wide to keep us from retreating back into the Greywood.

I saw Basilicus, doomed, lone Basilicus, still swinging his axe...

As a wave of centaur suddenly burst into the ranks nearest him. I presume you have seen a tournament, the sport of lancers riding at each other, one at a time, until one or the other is unhorsed. Lances shatter, shields buckle and break, and horses sometimes take the splinters.

Imagine that happening, forty or fifty times over, involving centaurs. They didn’t even need lances; the speed, the sheer weight of bodies ... where they collided, even centaurs were broken, went flying in all directions. Yes, all directions, including variants of upward.

“Laughing. Gods.” I said. Nothing else seemed important.

It was a flower of blood, a fountain of death. What manner of madness could compel a man to be part of such a display?

Weeping openly, I almost missed her arrow. But I caught it on the edge of my shield, costing it eight points of condition.

It was Zinzelle, of course. I waited for her to shout at me, to say that the Cloverhoof clan should have just slit my throat in my sleep. But she did no such thing, knocking a second arrow and firing in my direction again. Again, I let the shield take the hit.

And then, she was past.

Screaming like morons, the minotaurs fell upon the wounded and fallen, killing both friend and foe. They did little more than finish off the fallen, but it was enough. By the time the Uruk arrived, by the time the defending cavalry picked up speed again, the attackers were leaving, a column of neatly organized wedges, the rear guard weaving back and forth, firing arrows at any who drew near.

The field... well, yes, you’ve heard the flowery words. Two hundred, perhaps three. A full half of the forces were laying on that field when the battle was over.

Unlike my fugitives, the uruk, hobgoblin, and goblin troops had no issue telling friend from foe. It took me a while to realize they were not taking prisoners, not treating the wounded. Friends received medical aid, enemies the spear.

“This... This is not the way.” I said to a nearby soldier.

“Take your cowardice up with Uma.” she replied.

With... Uma. Right.

“You there!” a guard shouted as I approached the deadliest combatant on that field. “Abomination! Cease approaching.”

“My name is Rhishisikk, and I am...”

He bounced the head of a pike off my shield, shattering it. I grabbed the haft, tried to pull him off his feet. We were still struggling when Uma smashed a gauntlet onto my helmet.

“Hell.” she said. “You must have put on half a foot and a good half a stone.”

She hefted me into the air by my helm, prompting me to grab her fingers. My neck is a biological wonder, but I had my doubts that it could support my weight.

“You,” she shook me for effect, “were supposed to return with a platoon of warriors. Where are my prospective husbands?”

I began pointing them out with my legs. “In order of prestige as reckoned in Othello, Maximus, Basilicus, and Imperious.”

“All of them unconscious or dead.” she said. “After a battle that YOU seem to be conscious after, of all small miracles.”

She looked at the remaining herd, gathering around her. “But, I do seem to have a good number of children that I might adopt.” She shook her mane out. “If I would accept such a scraggly bunch. By the gods, I’ll have to get them back to Narrow Valley just to have them bathed.”

She shook me again. “I do not see but three of them that I would call sister after they claimed dominance over one of my brothers.”

“That count is accurate.” I said.

“So what you mean is that not only have I nearly lost my life and those lives of all around me. Now I need to tell my brother about YOUR lackluster performance again.”

I sighed, and cracked my lower back into something closer to the proper shape. “You’ve done well with the vanguard, when will Rakkal be arriving?”

“Vanguard?” she asked. “This hundred twenty soldiers and half that in centaurs is it. This is the field army of the empire.”

“This is... a year ago, we had thousands!” I said.

“WE did. WE have taken losses. Rakkal and his good buddy Harkulet are back east, trying to raise an entirely new army. YOU are busy bringing me...” she kicked Basilicus lightly in his head. “Really, snake tongue? THESE were the best warriors you could get?”

“These are those with the courage to come, and the survivors of what the trail had for us.”

“Really.” she stomped a foot. “Tell me.”

And so I did, from the betrayal of the matrons up until the Battle of Bloody Tears.

“Ah, Guur will lap that up.” she said. She stepped idly on Imperious’ fingers, popping them one at a time. “THIS is what you bring me? My runty little brother can by himself put all three of them to shame.”

“Your brother Rakkal? The Axe Hero? The man with powers beyond what we mere humans have access to?”

“Yes.” she said. “That one. The one you promised to bring me warriors. Not...” she considered an unconscious Maximus. “Hm. The muscle on this one hasn’t bulked up yet. But he MIGHT be worth a second look when he recovers.”

She let go of my helmet, and I fell sprawling upon the ground. “He seems taken with you as well.” I said.

“How taken?” she asked. “Did you bring me an emotional leech?”

“He DID fight a cyclops to get to you.” I reminded her.

She ground a hoof, threw back her head. “Gods.” she whispered. “Save me from this foolishness.”

A hobgoblin guard came up to us from behind me. Him, I heard. The kobold, I did not.

“A message for the Lady Uma,” he said, flourishing a scroll at her. “From the mighty Rakkal, who happens to be your brother.”

“What does that runt want now?” she asked, grabbing the scroll and ripping it to get it open.

“Gods.” she said, stomping her foot thrice. “I take it back, I take it back, I take it back.” But when she was done, the words on the scroll hadn’t changed.

“All troops!” she shouted. “Form up, and be ready for a forced march to Whitehill. Walking wounded, catch up. Medical camp is here, volunteers only.”

“That seems ... draconian.” I said. “What has happened?”

“That eastern hobgoblin nation. They’ve circled the mountains to attack us from the north. They have fourteen thousand infantry.”

Fourteen thousand? They didn’t have enough people for that!

Yes, not all of us were soldiers. And the others... to call them a skirmisher formation would be generous.

As it came to be known later.