We were roused just before dawn, to witness a ceremony to honour the gods, particularly Vungar of the Ice, and Pynzar of the Flame, the twin warrior gods of Urndrin. Eighteen chunkrah bulls were sacrificed, nine to each god, in supplication for victory. The priests went through their usual mumbojumbo, though I never really paid attention to that sort of thing in those days. To me it always seemed that the priests of my homeland were always mostly improvising, and gave whatever they came up with the air of something steeped in tradition and ritual. I had been told that a couple hundred years ago, rather than sacrificing chunkrah, it would have been virgin apims. Well, times change, though I know a few people later on blamed what happened that day on the fact that we did not perform a human sacrifice, as the old ways demanded.
We ate pretty well that morning; we had a stew with ponsho meat, beans, onions, and scava, a sort of coarse grain that grew in the cold climate of Urndrin. It is good not only for eating but also for making ale and porridge. Bread made from scava, on the other hand, is hard and rough, and leaves something to be desired.
We broke camp with full bellies, and within a bur or so we were on the march. It didn't take us long to come within sight of the town; there were plenty of fields and pastures in the area; the land had a certain rolling quality to it; slightly hilly, but not enough to interfere too much with our ability to see distances.
This was the first time I had seen Raviksmot; it was built on a low hill in the center of a wide valley. On either side of the valley the slopes were covered with firs and pines, and a few deciduous trees as well, which had mostly lost their leaves. The valley was a patchwork of fields, all of which had been harvested by now; the stubble peeked up forlornly. Where the ground was other than level ponshos grazed on what was left of the year's growth; soon they would be taken in before the snows came.
The town itself was surrounded by a high earthen rampart, which for the most part guarded the top of the hill's edge. On that rampart there once stood a wallhouse, a sturdy building of logs and turf, from which archers could shoot arrows and javilineers could hurl spears. At gates and other key points would have stood towers, also made of wood, of which a few were still standing. It was clear that in the months while the Mengradi had been here, they had repaired some of the wallhouse, and closed some of the gaps with a palisade. But about a quarter of the town was still without the protection of it's wall.
We formed up in a great line about half an ulm away from the town. Those of us from Sundergar were on the left end of the line; we faced the gap in the wall; the King and his elite Crimson Huscarls were on the right. According to our Hikdars, the plan was for the bulk of the force to charge the gap in the wall. Though we'd have to climb the earthen rampart, our force of numbers ought to allow us to carry over the top. Meanwhile, after the battle was joined in the gap, the King's elite Huscarls and his other forces would swing around the side of the town, and attack one of the gates. With most of the defenders tied up at the gap, they should be able to force their way through the gate; once inside the town they'd curl around and hit the Javikians from behind. Clearly, the King hoped to crush the Javikians utterly.
From our position we could see the enemy line at the top of the rampart. They stood on the rampart, shouting jeers at us and daring us to come at them. Some of us shouted back, though from here no doubt all that would be heard would be raw noise; we were too far off to make out any of their words, either. I could see their standard fluttering overhead of their ranks; a crimson bosk's head on a field of blue and grey stripes. Blue and grey are the colours of Javikiadrin, and most standards from that land used those colours. Our colours were red and blue, representing Vungar and Pynzar, the Ice and Fire gods, and the king's symbol was a crowned golden korf, which is a noble-looking bird of prey. The king had such a standard, embroidered with gold lace and tassels; most of the other flags in our host were less grand. The flag of the Strom of Sundergar bore a silver hand holding a flaming silver sword upright, on the traditional background of red and blue.
We formed a very long line, wrapping around about half the city, just out of arrow range. Urndrinners do not use bows for much more than hunting, but occasionally they are pressed into use for war, and we also use crossbows on occasion. Traditionally the bow is a coward's weapon, but it is so useful in defending fortifications that our aversion to such weapons is never total. However, when it came to it, the heavy shields we all carried would more than protect us from any arrows.
We waited over a bur as the line formed; the deldars were running up and down the line, making sure we were all ready and in formation. We formed a mass six ranks deep, and our front must have been two ulms long. We felt sure that the people in the town must be a not a little daunted by the size of our host.
It seemed like forever, waiting in the line. The formations were fully formed, and yet we waited for the order to march. The Hikdar was clearly unsettled, somehow. He would alternate from nervous silence to an attempt at a rousing speech, and then he would get distracted and his speech would falter. We could see the Strom, Sark Alledur, who was also our Jiktar, standing aways off down the line chatting and laughing with his cronies. Just before the hour of mid one of his pages appeared with a benhoff, ready for him to ride. He climbed up, and though at the time I knew little about saddle animals, it was clear that neither did he. But he managed to spur the benhoff into a walk and rode out in front of the line, facing us.
He paused, surveying the men arrayed before him. We all waited for him to say something, as he sat there eyeing us. He turned around and reached behind him for a saddlebag, which he hitched up, and began ruffling through. Beside me, Nazak peered at him, puzzled.
"What's he doing?"
"Shh."
Similar rumblings could be heard throughout the host. But when the Strom looked up, quiet settled upon us like the eye of the hurricane. He lifted his hand out of the saddlebag, and it was full of gold! Coins, jewelry, baubles and trinkets... if that bag was full of such things then in it would be a fortune that could last a man a lifetime.
"This bag of gold," the Strom announced, "is a reward to the boldest of my men. As you know, we are to storm the hill, while the King's men attack the gate. But I do not intend to allow the King's huscarls to get all the glory while we climb up a hill of dirt."
"Instead, we are going to crest that hill, and drive back the Javikians so utterly that we will then open the gate from inside, and invite the Kings Huscarls to enter!"
A cheer went up from the regiment, along with a few shouts of "Sundergar!" and "Pynzar!"
"This gold is a reward to whichever of you can reach the rear of that gate and open it before the King's men breach it! Who wants the gold?"
A hearty cheer of unanimity went up. I must admit to looking longingly at that gold myself, and cheering heartily along with the rest of them. Such gold would set me up in fine style for a long time. With it I could buy a great many things, though I fancied I would get some Skurlain weapons and armour; they are noted as being the highest quality and are naturally expensive. Others might be thinking of buying land, or a ship, or perhaps slaves. But living comfortably is not something a young Urndrinner worries about.
"Sons of Sundergar, we know that a victory today is not in doubt. Our army is more than twice as large as theirs. What matters today is who takes the glory... and the booty!"
Another cheer went up.
"We know there must be plenty of loot in the town. It will be in the hands of the soldiers there. Once we are over the wall, find the barracks and where the nobles are staying, and you will find enough silver and gold to fill your sacks!"
Again, cheering resulted. The thought of riches filled the heads of the swods in the ranks. But naturally Sark wanted us to gain as much plunder as possible. As Jiktar, he would receive a third of everything his Hikdars took in, who would in turn receive a third of everything their Deldars took in. Our Deldar, Jortyg the Breaker, would receive a third of all our booty as well. If we managed to get first crack at the loot in the town, Sark would make out like a bandit.
One of the swods said "But this is a friendly town! The people are Mengradi, like us!"
Most of the swods didn't think much of that. Neither did Sark.
"Yes, this town is part of Mengradrin. But remember that all the loot has already been taken by those rasts of Javikians. We will be liberating it. Those of you who take loot are welcome to return it to the people of Raviksmot!"
There were guffaws at this. Sark pressed on.
"Though remember that Raviksmot is the home of the Murjiran clan, and we do not owe them any favors. I for one will keep my silver, and the Raviksmoters can hang for all I care!"
There were cheers at this too. Even those here who were not somehow connected with the Alledur clan (and that wasn't many; it always seems that everyone is related somehow or other in any Urndrinner town) knew that the feuding between the Alledurs and the Murjirans had been virtually non-stop for longer than anyone could remember. If it were not for the greater threat of the Javikians, the people of Sundergar would have been unlikely to help.
The idea of looting one enemy after defeating another appealed to most of us. At that moment it was hard not to be in good cheer; we were ready to face our enemies boldly and without fear, for all logic told us that we could not be defeated. But no general should take a battle for granted, especially when it involves assaulting a fortified place against a dug in defender. Vad Kyrix had more than one surprise prepared for us, as we would find out.
It wasn't until just past the hour of mid that the horns began to sound. A cheer went up among the ranks, as the bleary horns sounded, and there was a great deal of banging upon shields. The horns sounded again, and Strom Sark strode out in front of us brandishing his sword. He waved it into a circle and then pointed it at the town.
"Forward!", he shouted, and was immediately echoed by his Hikdars and Deldars. Shouts of "forward!" and "advance!" and "march!" could be heard up and down the line. Then, not quite in unison, but close enough that the effect was more or less the same, the line began moving forward. I can still remember that sight clearly; all the shields straightened and moved forward, and the people of Mengradrin stepped forward to meet their destiny, good or bad. The air was crisp and clean, and the sky was blustery with a few patches of blue here and there. The wind picked up a little. I could smell the autumn leaves in the ground mixed with the odor of leather and sweat. And I began to hear the Javikians jeering on their rampart once again. I remember thinking to themselves, are they as confident as us? Is it always like this before a battle? Or are they simply trying to cover their fear at the sight of so great a host?
As we crossed that hard ground I remember a strange nervousness overcoming me. I had the urge to fidget with my hands; restlessly I kept readjusting my shield. Nazak told me to cut it out more than once. This field was so wide! It seemed to take burs to cross, step after step, with the enemy ahead of us, in plain view. I could hardly restrain myself from breaking into a run and charging the town; not because I bore the enemy any real hatred or was keen on proving myself to my peers. I just couldn't stand the wait, the tension of it all building up with no release.
I was about to do something crazy; scream or break ranks or something, when a shout came down from the Deldars to the right:
"Shields right!"
The Javikians had set up a little archery platform to the right of the gap; little more than a wooden square raised up on stilts. There must have been a dozen or so archers up there, and they had begun shooting arrows into the ranks. Now, with your shield strapped to the left arm, covering the right side of your body with it is a tricky proposition, though when someone is shooting arrows at you you'd be surprised at how you improvise. My eyes could just see over the top of the shield in this position, but enough to see that we were getting close. I could hear the chanting of the Javikians now:
"Mengra whoresons! Come and join us,
Then we'll chop your poxy loins off!
Serve you right for laying with ponshos
We'll share your wives with all our fanshos!"
Our response was much less organized; there were shouts about Javikian land-thieves receiving their six feet of Mengradi soil, and similar death threats, but we had no ready reply we could shout in unison. There was a great deal of shield-banging, though, and pretty soon we were all pounding away on our shields with what weapons we had, mostly axes and spears, and a few maces, flails, and swords as well.
Though we were still taking arrows from the small tower, the deldars called for a halt to dress the line; we banged away on our shields as we stood there; by now the Javikians were doing the same. I thought they would have an advantage if they charged down the hill at us, but they waited at the top of the rampart. Then, after just a mur or two, we could see a flag waving down at the other end of the line, and horns began to blow again. All our deldars began roaring.
"Chaaarge!"
Though I had been waiting for this moment, it actually caught me by surprise. With a roar the line surged forward, and I found myself roaring and rushing pell-mell with the rest of the swods towards the rampart. In moments we were at the foot of the rampart, and with shields slanting up we began rushing up the hill.
"Blood and Fire!" I shouted, the war cry of Pynzar the fire and war god. Others shouted with me. We were halfway up the hill when I saw the Javikians raising something up in the air, made of wood. I remember that moment of clarity, as while the body I was in rushed towards the crest of the hill, screaming blue murder and trying to keep my shield and axe up, a part of me considered in puzzlement what these wooden things were. It was as if ramps were being raised behind the Javikian line, to allow us to keep charging upward into the sky! For a moment I could almost see the logic in such a stratagem, absurd as it was. Then, I could see that at the top ends of these ramps were large barrels, which were starting to roll down...
I didn't know what was in those barrels (I later found out it was lead shot packed with frozen damp earth), but they roared through our line like a landslide through a stand of saplings. Next to me, Jaro the Deft was smashed like eggs as his shield was blown to bits by the barrel, which kept hurtling down the hill as if nothing had stood in it's way. Another barrel bounced over my head, and I ducked under my shield, the bottom end of which was propped up against the ground in front of me. A barrel struck my shield and my face was driven into the dirt; my arm felt like it was being ripped out of it's socket. Still, the pain meant that I was alive, and that the barrel had rolled over me. I struggled to my feet, and saw that our line, though much more ragged than before, was still making it's way up the hill. I got to my feet unsteadily and started climbing again, only to see something that astonished me even more.
The Javikian shield wall had pulled back neatly in little columns, and now a new body of troops were cresting the hill from the far side. Rapas! Vulturine humanoids, with bird-like heads and mottled skin, who stank of carrion. To us, this seemed the ultimate treachery, that Rapas should tread on Mengradi soil. We Mengradi never used to tolerate diffs in those days, whatever variety of half-men, be it Rapas from the far side of the Boiling Sea, or Ochs from the Southern parts of Urndrin, the eight-legged Thierzars from the continent, or any other race of humanoids on Kregen, of which there are many, including a good many which are native to Urndrin. Mengradrin was a "pure" land; only apims were welcome, while Javikiadrin harbored all sorts of menagerie men, like Traegarim, Trymoxes, and others; it had been a bone of contention between our lands for some time. But Rapas! They were by far the worst race of diff; they stank of filth and had the habits of rasts. Well, that was not quite true, as I would find out later; many of the things I was raised believing died hard at later points of my life. But there they were, Rapa mercenaries, the ultimate sacrilege, dressed in their ringmail armour. They were crouching down on one knee. And they were hefting crossbows...
I was down on the ground again, as the sleeting mass of destruction poured into our ranks. My shield was in front of me, and several bolts punched through and peeked out at me from the far side, though none came all the way through. Not everyone was so lucky; the barrels had caused enough confusion that many people had lowered their shields. Dozens of men fell back down the hill, their bodies pierced with heavy bolts. The crouched Rapas passed their crossbows behind them and received more crossbows, and readied for another volley. I heard Jortyg the Breaker shouting "Shields! Shields up!" and some of the swods managed to raise their shields in time, but as the second sleeting mass of bolts came down, more holes were punched in the line of swods. Our army didn't look much like an army anymore; it more looked like a big mob of startled chunkrah, not sure what it was doing. But the foremost of us were almost at the top now...
Nazak, Darrin the Sko-eyed (so named because of his lazy eye), Chaalin Alledur and I bunched together; I couldn't see anyone else from our audo, except Jortyg, our Deldar, further down the slope, and Zirk, beside Jortyg, struggling to get up. I saw a Rapa sighting his crossbow towards us, and I hurled my throwing axe at him; I remember how it stuck into his head, with the blood spurting as his head flew back with the blow. That was the first time I ever killed. The crossbow spat anyhow, though the bolt sped over our heads.
We were almost at the lip of the hill, now, and a few others from our line were there as well. As our eyes came level with the hilltop, we saw the Rapas were pulling back a little; the Javikian shield wall was moving up again in pockets, leaving wide gaps between them through which the Rapas were falling back. I could see the Javikians looking at us with hatred and glee; they seemed sure that the battle was going their way. Some of them clearly wanted to get at us, but their Deldars were shouting:
"Wait for it! Dress that line! Wait, damn you! Hold!"
I wasn't sure what they were waiting for; we were cresting the hill, and soon they wouldn't have the high ground advantage anymore. But coming up through the intervals were men who made my heart turn cold.
Trymoxes.
A Trymox is a fearsome creature. He stands typically about seven or eight feet tall, with a massive, blocky build; I suppose 500 or 600 pounds is an average weight for a Trymox. They have enough body and head hair to appear shaggy, and they have a pair of curling horns, not unlike a ram's. Top that off with a pair of tusk-like teeth jutting upward from the corners of their mouths.
Make no mistake, though; as frightening as a Trymox is, he is still a man; he has two eyes, two arms, and two legs (though I would later meet men who had more than two of each of these). We of Mengradrin tended to think of them as half-men, and we sometimes called them (along with many other races of beast-men) halflings, though "diff" is the correct term for such people. Apparently the Trymoxes sometimes jokingly refer to themselves as "one-and-a-halflings", as a jest on their large size.
As for Trymoxes, we used to say that they were stupid and ignorant, and lived like savages (something I later discovered that was said about all Urndrinners by many Southerners, and was, of course, just as untrue). Their homeland, Trymoxdrin, is a forested land on the Eastern side of the Spine of Vungar, the central and highest chain of mountains in Urndrin. This particular Trymox who stood before me wore a ringmail tunic, a fur cape, and a ferocious leer.
He was coming towards us at a trot, and he leaned back, his right arm over his shoulder behind him. With a yell he brought it down, and in his hand was a thick iron chain, to the end of which was affixed a large iron ball, about a foot wide. The ball came whistling overhead and smashed down, striking Chaalin's quickly upraised shield. His shield splintered into bits, and he was flung back down the hill, out cold, his left hand a useless bloody stump. I recall thinking how he was lucky enough to own a sword, and he had fallen without ever using it.
"Come on, you puppies!", the Trymox shouted, hefting his ball and chain again. This weapon, called the Claggar, is the preferred weapon of the Trymox, though they use plenty of others as well.
He was twirling the Claggar about his head, and it was picking up speed. As if we had just snapped out of a trance, the three of us that remained rushed forward. I swung my axe low, and it bit into the Trymox's ankle with a crunch. The Trymox howled, but before he could bring his Claggar down, Nazak had Struck at his ribs from the right, and Darrin's spear had thrust into his belly. With a gurgle, the Trymox spun around wildly; his Claggar flung out over our heads. Darrin's spear was wrenched from his hands as the Trymox whirled away, and collapsed in a heap a few feet off.
We cheered together, and pressed forward, even though Darrin no longer had his spear, and all he had left was a hastily drawn dagger. Another Trymox, dressed in ragged furs, roared past us to the left, axe overhead, no doubt plunging down on some hapless Mengradi. Another one came towards us with a huge iron-banded cudgel in his hands, and swung it at us.
Nazak and I stepped back, and I could feel the power of the swing as it whistled past; it was a palpable thing, like heat off a stone in summertime. We reeled back, though we had not been struck. Darrin was not so lucky; he raised his shield, and the wide arc of the great cudgel struck Darrin's shield dead on.
There was a horrible "crack!", and Darrin's shield split down the middle, leaving him holding the boss, what good that did him, I don't know. Darrin flew backward in a cloud of splinters. Past Darrin to our right I could see what remained of our line wavering; the hill was piled with dead and wounded, and I could see a Trymox dressed in what seemed to be golden scalemail, hewing away with a golden leaf-shaped shortsword that must have been a yard long, though it seemed small in his hands.
As the cudgel swept by, Nazak leaped forward and tried to cleave the Trymox's skull in. He struck a horn, and the axe got wedged in the horn. The Trymox roared, and grabbed Nazak with his left hand, throttling him. I hacked at the Trymox's hand, drawing blood but missing the wrist. He turned and threw Nazak at me; I ducked, and Nazak flew over me, and tumbled down the hill.
"I'll squash you good, pipsqueak", the Trymox rumbled, and he leaned back to retrieve his cudgel. I stepped forward, as if to hack at his ankles with my axe; wildly the Trymox swung the cudgel overhead, and smashed it down. I quickly stepped aside, and buried the axe in the side of his neck. He tumbled sideways, gushing blood, and I remember thinking it was a shame that all that blood got on his blue and red striped woolen tunic.
I looked around, and heard blowing from a great many Huarach horns (a Huarach is like a wild Chunkrah, with even longer, thick horns that are good for hollowing out and blowing. They have shaggy thick hides). The Javikians had formed a solid line now, and few Mengradi stood on the hill; none were left who had reached the top. I stood alone, and faced the Javikian line, and it seemed like they all just leered at me for a moment.
Then, with a hearty roar, they surged forwards, and my stomach turned to lead. Hundreds of Javikians raced towards me, and all my friends were gone. I wanted to run, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot. Suddenly, I saw the face of my father, jeering at me, his narrow chin, wrinkly brow, and beady eyes loomed in front of me like a statue, or a god.
And he laughed.
He laughed at me.
"I told you you'd never amount to anything!" He jeered, gleefully. "You're useless! You'll always be useless! Run away, now, run away with piss in your breeches and a girl's tears in your eyes! Run back to mother, you useless wretch"
At that moment I let out the most bloodcurdling scream that ever passed my lips.
Whatever happened, my father would not win; I would stand and fight, and rage and cleave and kill until I was struck down. I would die today, the last of Jortyg's audo, but no one would say that I ran. No one.
With my teeth clenched, and tears in my eyes I met the Javikian line. I smashed the first man's head in, and beheaded the second, and was on to the third before they knew what hit them. My mind was on fire, and my body was like a whirlwind; suddenly I possessed strength and speed I never knew I had.
Blood spurted, though not mine; I smashed a man's shield in two and cut off his let hand; another took my axe laterally in the face, and I cut him a new mouth just below the eyes.
Quickly the Javikians around me stopped leering and began looking at me wide-eyed, trying to make some distance around me. But I was among them, and in the press I hacked and hewed and clove. The world burned red around me. Their fear fed my rage, and my axe rose and fell, and my shield smashed out.
Us Mengradi call this Pynzar's gift, the fire-blood rage of a berserk. Though they are rare, they are known througout Urndrin, and they are feared by most sane men.
A rapa stood in front of me with a crossbow poited at me. There was no bolt in his crossbow. He stared at me dumbly as I hacked his head off. A sword licked out at me, and a tough looking Javikian flashed his swordpoint before my eyes. I smashed at it with my axe, but he yanked it out of the way. He lunged again, meaning to skewer me and have done. I caught his swordpoint on my shield, and I rushed him, bowling him over backwards, and landing on top of him. I think I broke his sword. I tried to lift my axe, but he grabbed it by the haft, and clung to it with a deathgrip. So I let go of the axe, and raised my shield over my head with both hands, ready to smash him with it. Just as I began to bring my shield down, I saw the round iron ball of a Claggar swinging towards me. It struck my shield, cracking it in half, and as if it had not passed through anything more substantial than mist, it kept coming towards me. It struck, and the cloak of Notor Zan enfolded me.
When I awoke, I was lying on my back, gazing up at the sky. My face hurt, and so did my left leg. But the pain was a quiet stinging, not the searing pain of a broken bone or torn flesh.
It was snowing softly; big fat snowflakes that drifted down like goose feathers. Everything seemed quiet, and I could hear the sounds of battle distantly. I gazed up at the sky for a while, which remained a blustery grey, sometimes pale, and other times dark, with the clouds marching slowly southward.
After a while I sat up, growing tired of looking at clouds. I found myself at the foot of the hill, with bodies piled about me. A crossbow bolt portruded from my left thigh; it had assed all the way through, and the head had broken off somewhere. I stared at it numbly for a while. My shield lay nearby, split in two pieces. A few other survivors crawled about, moaning, or weeping, or laughing; I couldn't really hear what any of them were saying.
Off in the distance I could see the battle still raging; the Javikians had pushed our army way back down into the fields, and I could see some distant figures, riding around on Benhoffs. slashing with sabres. They looked like Traegarim, a race of diffs that look like Siberian Huskies who walk upright. I could hear their yipping war cries, as they raced around, preventing the escape of our forces.
It occurred to me suddenly that I had lived; not only had I lived, but I had lived those moments on top of the hill well. Had I died then, I would have been certain to pass through the Ice Floes of Sicce and sit at the Hearth of Pynzar, and tell him the tale of my heroism.
But I had lived; I had survived the impossible. And as I looked around, I realized that many others had also survived, and still moved through this field of charnel. And I realized that I wished to continue living.
It would soon be dark, and then it would get colder still. I had to get moving.
I tried to rise, and felt a shooting pain in my leg. I looked down, and noticed for the second time the quarrel sticking out of my leg. I stumbled, and sat again. Steeling myself, I gripped the shaft, and after a couple of short breaths I yanked on the shaft as hard as I could.
It felt like fire had shot through my leg. I could feel the shaft inside me, like some abominable worm chewing it's way through me.
And then it was out. It came out with a sucking sound, a little boot-coming-free-of-mud noise. I gasped, and my leg felt ragged and abused, but better. Blood started pouring out, though, so I tore a strip of cloth from a dead man's cloak, and wrapped it around my leg tightly, tying it off for now.
I judged I could stand, so I stood, and hobbled about a little. I knew I would need a weapon, and a shield, and I soon had a half-decent axe and a sturdy shield. It had red and grey checks on it, and a symbol of what looked like some sort of leaping fish. I didn't recognize the insignia. Well, it was not my family's schtuvral, but what could I expect.
I could see a group of rapas, spread out and picking through the bodies. They were working their way through the bodies, pickinga things. I had no desire to still be present when they got this far. I glanced around. To the east lay the town, and though I saw no more people on the rampart, I had no desire to look over that crest again. To the west and southwest the battle still raged, and it certainly wasn't going our way. I wondered what happened to the King's elite Huscarls; I couldn't see their banner from here.
To the north, about a quarter of an ulm past the town lay a stand of pine trees. Well, that looked likely. I started off at a trot towards them. After a moment I heard a shout from behind me, and I gathered I had been spotted. Without looking back, I broke into a shambling run. A crossbow bolt whistled by, to my far left, considerably wide. None followed it. If there were any of those Traegarim riding around on benhoffs nearby, I was done for.
I crossed a road, which was covered with hoofprints, and I realized that the Traegarim must have waited around the north side of the town, waiting to spring the last piece of the trap. Now I was crossing the tracks of their charge.
Though my lungs were afire, before I knew it I was among the trees. I chanced a look back, and saw that a few rapas were pursuing, but not with any particular zeal. Most had gone back to looting the dead. I kept running, and soon the quiet of the forest enfolded me.
And so I lived through the Battle of the Barrels, and discovered my gift and curse, the gift of Pynzar. I was a berserk.
Chapter 1: Sygar and I make the Pappatu
Chapter 2: Language Lessons
Chapter 3: A Long Way from Home
Chapter 4: The Road to Raviksmot
Chapter 5: The Battle of the Barrels
Chapter 6: Wrangling
Chapter 7: Saved by the Bell
Chapter 8: I am Invited to Dinner