One thousand heartbeats thumped simultaneously as a sea of blue and a staggered field of green came upon each other. Hoots and hollers, swords on maces, bones splintering, the battlefield filled with noise. A new sound erupted into the chaos, the sound of crossbow and longbow volleys. Two thick clouds of brown flashed for a moment in the sky before dropping down and meeting turf or more often flesh.
The
soldiers of green, Ueklanders, wore only dyed shirts and loose britches. They growled while cutting their prey to
ribbons, grunting away the pain when wounded.
Some of their victims would argue that they were of canine kindred due
to their savage zeal. They wielded the
axe, shortbow, and cudgel with mastery, their instruments of death made crudely
with as little metal as possible.
The
fighters opposite them, the Urians, were of a different sort completely. Most wore chain shirts and some had plate
armor, gauntlets, and shields. They
fought with dignity, valor, and for some even chivalry. Tempered longswords, longbows, and halberds
were the most commonly used weapons by them.
Among the
waves of blue and white surcoated warriors was one soldier of particular
character. He was a giant. Not a giant of southern myth that could look
over mighty oak trees, but of a more humble type. He stood two heads higher than a man of tall
build, was heavily muscled, and wielded a broadsword in one armored fist.
The
giant’s name was Nom. Born the runt of
twins that miraculously both survived through infancy, Nom overcame numerous
struggles in his life. At the age of ten
his ailing parents both died of a mysterious fever that left him and his
brother unscathed, leaving the two to fend for themselves. Nom’s brother died soon after the event, killed
by a wild boar that Nom killed with his bare hands. Nom grew rapidly and caught the attention of
a nobleman who watched him kill a grey bear while passing by in his
carriage. The man, Baron Olwren, took
him to the castle to be a man-at-arms, which he took to quickly and well.
Nom waved
his sword in a massive horizontal arc.
The blade cut deeply into the upper torsos of three Ueklandian axeman,
spraying blood onto the uniforms of himself and all around him. His victims stood still for a moment, rage
still in their eyes, then each in turn were pushed down to make room for the
eager men behind them. He fought long
and hard, slashing and thrusting through line upon line. Looking from the air you could see a slight
depression forming in the back of the green mass across from where Nom stood.
The
Ueklanders, fearless in nature, began to avoid the destroying man and his
massive sword. One of them, however, ran
up to face him, a crude iron mace in his hand.
He dodged the backhanded swing meant to sever his head and came inside
of Nom’s sword range. With a powerful
two-handed swing of his cudgel, the Ueklander mutilated Nom’s sword hand,
forcing him to drop his sword. Nom’s
eyes swelled with tears and he had to bite his lip to repress the pain. Nom pulled back his fist and slammed it into
the face of his oppressor, dropping him to the ground.
Nom
fought on all day. He moved his sword to
his weaker hand, keeping back tears at the pain of its badly fractured
twin. Men fell around Nom but he
continued long after until the call for mutual rest set for darkness by the
Urian King and Ueklandian Warlord came.
Nom
strode to the Urian encampment. He
stripped off his bloody surcoat and armor.
With a pained expression on his face, Nom pulled off his right gauntlet
and saw the grotesque sight which lay beneath.
His hand had multiple compound fractures, severe swelling, and had begun
turning green with infection. Fear
struck Nom hard. His hand was a
necessary tool for his profession and he didn’t know how he could go on if it
had to be removed. He moved toward a nearby surgeon briskly.
“Sir, can
you please look at my hand?” Nom asked him, eyebrows knit.
“That’s
what I’m here for,” he replied. The
surgeon put on a face of amazement and scanned all six and a half feet of Nom’s
bulky form when he looked upon him. He
adjusted his gaze to examine Nom’s crippled hand stifled a cough at the
gore.
“This
hand is quite mangled, my good man,” the surgeon said. His expression morphed into sadness. “I’m afraid it is going to have to come
off.” Nom went numb inside. He would have to leave the life of a crippled
man. A tear cut through the blood and
grime of his cheek.
The
surgeon plucked up a bottle of hard liquor and a saw from the instrument table
beside him. “Drink this,” he said
soothingly. Nom took the bottle from him
and tore off the cork, then tilted the liquor to his lips and sipped. Nom’s face twisted at the taste and
accompanying burn. Nom’s thoughts turned
hazy. He stumbled and nearly fell. The world faded away.
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