Ok, so I wrote this for my english class about 2 years. Please note that I had to cut about 6 pages 'cuz I lost the file twice and had to retype it overnight for class. Also, because I had to shorten it so much, elements of the story have been changed and are a bit dry. Maybe sometime I'll get around to completing it. Let me know what you think of the bare-bones version.
Warriors of revenge
A shape ran through the woods, as quiet as a deer. Running by tree after tree, never slowing but always watching. He suddenly stopped in a dimly lit clearing. Artem Tu’shung'khal stood nervously and shifted his bow between hands. He knew he needed to work quickly. Scanning the clearing with brandished golden eyes, he chose a nearby tree. Artem smiled to himself with the thought of all the times he spent climbing trees without limbs as a child in the village. The thought was immediately erased; this was no time for thoughts of times past. He was far from home now, or what was left of it.
After climbing more than twenty spans up the tree, he began pulling himself up into the thick branches. He could only hope that the scarce foliage would keep him hidden long enough. Positioning himself in the crotch of a sturdy limb thicker than his own body, he began shifting his equipment – a short bow, loaded quiver, short sword, and small traveling pack. Shifting his equipment was done meticulously so as to make minimal noise while creating a larger range of motion. Finally satisfied, he sat and as left with his thoughts. He knew he had done this a hundred times before, but a voice in the back of his mind whispered of failure. Pessimism could hinder him, so he tried to think of other things, but the only thought that came to mind was that of failure. His thoughts wrestled in his mind for some time until he came up with his own argument. He had done this before; it’s the same as hunting. This time was just different game. As he wrestled in his mind, he mechanically pulled a freshly fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bow, resting it on his knee preparing to wait.
How much time passed, he couldn’t be sure, but a faint rustle of leaves was heard. Before Artem could consciously think, the partridge feathers were at his cheek and he was aiming at the sound. He nearly laughed to himself as he found a squirrel running along the ground. He briefly thought of shooting the plump rodent, perhaps the only food he would see all day, but quickly decided against it. An arrow in the ground would alert any enemies who saw it. Climbing down to retrieve the arrow and squirrel would cost precious time and risk the possibility to be seen. Artem could not afford that. It may be like hunting animals, but this was not one to underestimate. Besides, the squirrel hadn’t noticed him; perhaps any experienced woodsmen would take it as a sign of safety. With his argument settled, he cleared all thoughts out of his mind.
It was late afternoon and Artem may as well have been sleeping with his eyes open. Yet at the sound of a twig snapping over a hundred paces away, he could shoot to kill. That is, if he knew what creature he was shooting at. All it took was time and patience. However, time had become the enemy. Just be patience once more, than I can have my revenge. Just then, he heard footsteps, rhythmic and controlled. Silence was obviously not a high priority. Artem snapped to attention, fletching already to his cheek.
Off in the distance, he caught glimpses of reflected light. He knew he could shoot a squirrel at a nearly thirty paces, and he had proved himself in the village by shooting targets at eighty paces. Still, for a moment he doubted his skill. Shooting squirrels and targets was nothing compared to firing at armed and trained men. With a well-developed discipline, he pushed panic out of his thoughts as he readied himself. He figured he could fire two, possibly three arrows before he was spotted. Two or three would have done nicely, but he knew he needed at least four.
Seconds passed that stretched into eternity. Artem realized he had stopped breathing. He was as rigid and still as the tree he sat in as the first line of soldiers came into the clearing. Men marched, two abreast, with polished helmets and breastplates and wore swords at their sides. Watching them pass by, he figured he would need to wait for about a dozen men to pass before he would find his target.
Humans, he thought bitterly, I should try to kill them all. But he knew that their “services” were required. Finally he spotted his targets. Not much different from the rest of the men, but one wore a blue stripe down the bridge of his helmet. Next to him was another with a similar mark, only with a red stripe instead. Behind these two were two more men equipped with golden armor, a sign of valor and triumph – at least to humans. Artem needed to wait only a few more seconds; needed them to take just a few more steps. It will all be over soon.
In a tower over 500 leagues away, two men talked in a luxurious study. One man sat in a finely carved chair with velvet cushions filled with down feathers that were tacked to the seat. He was dressed more elaborately than a commoner would have been on a feast day. With a soft indigo hue on his coat and golden chains adding a sign of wealth. He sat with a goblet of lightly spiced wine, looking over a map on the table in front of him. The other man stood and propped his hand on the nearest bookshelf with his head down. He was dressed in the equivalent of rags to a nobleman, yet it was still finer than anything a peasant owned.
“It won’t work,” the first man said as he set his goblet down. There were pawn pieces on a map to represent soldier placements. “Our forces will be too spread out.” He spoke very matter-of-factly. He cared little about the lives of these men, but that was still more than the other man cared.
“Then what do you propose we do?” He said bitterly. He pushed himself off the bookshelf to stand fully, and looked down at the map. Both men could easily see the strategy. If the armies took two key cities, the armies would form a rough circle. From there, battles would spiral inward from village or city to the next. There would be little resistance until they reached the center where the strongest city lay – Tenshae. A city of perhaps a few thousand people barricaded against the “undefeatable” armies of the King. But Tenshae still stood independently, as it has for the past two decades. It was once a city under the King’s rule, but war had upset the entire nation. Tenshae broke free of the King, and promised to be a safe haven for anyone who wanted to be free. Consequently, the city has become a giant playground for refugees, barbarians, and even shadier characters. Taking the city back will bring these people to justice.
“Warolmer, your name may promise great victory in war, but this plot is too obvious. No doubt by the time we reach here,” he placed a finger on a village too small to be named on the map, “Tenshae will call all the remaining villages inside its walls and prepare to fight. Just in this area alone,” he made a circle with his finger, roughly halfway between the troops and the center, “there must be enough men to outmatch our current placements.” Apparently, the thugs of Tenshae had corrupted the villages surrounding it, and now they will fight along side them if they called for it.
He knew Warolmer did not care. He sat less than five paces away from the throne in the Great Hall. If he could take over Tenshae, he was sure he would be raised to advisor, or maybe even the head of generals. There, he could plan the King’s demise. The King was a confusing fellow. He would put on a show for the people by making a public appearance and talking to the people. Of course, behind closed doors he made plans to start riots and such. Then he would come in with his soldiers to settle the matter, letting the people believe he was the kind and just ruler they thought he was. Warolmer knew he was a coward at heart; he was too soft for Warolmer’s liking. But for now, as he had been for eleven years, he must be patient.
“If we place troops here,” he moved pawns with a stretched hand; “we could try to-“
“Warolmer,” the man said quietly holding up a hand. “Let it rest for half a year. By then we can have reinforcements in there. By then, you should have enough power to crush Tenshae.” He spoke firmly in a flat voice, but kept staring at the map as if thinking of other things. Warolmer thought briefly of it then let his hand drop.
“Oh, very well. Half a year. I suppose I will have to keep myself occupied with local affairs.” He more spat rather than spoke with a look of disgust on his face. Local affairs meant dealing with peasants, collecting taxes and the sort. “In any case, I’ll be off to my chamber for the night.” He walked wearily to the door as if he hadn’t slept in days. As he touched the handle, he spoke quietly over his shoulder, “And remember, keep your bloody tongue in your skull. Perhaps someday I’ll have further use for you.” With that, he opened the door and left.
The other man sat and listened for the door to close. He let a quick curse out of his mouth and cleared the pawns off the map. He then rolled it up and stored it back on the shelf it came from. A she sat back down, he picked up his goblet and took a long drink, finishing what was left in it. Licking his lips, he picked up a pawn from the table with his free hand and studied the small piece of wood. “Jhordy, ol’ boy, what have you gotten yourself into?”
The sun rose over the horizon, but Artem was still awake. He kept recalling the attack he made the previous afternoon.
He let the fletching go from his cheek. He could see it plunge into the neck of one of the gold-plated men. He died before even letting out a yelp, but Artem had already drawn another arrow and let it fly. The first man’s counterpart fell before he even noticed the other’s death. However, the other men realized what was going on. They went on the defensive, scanning the area for their attacker. Most had already drawn swords, those who hadn’t were reaching for their bows. Artem vaguely heard people shouting, but he did see men pointing in his direction. He realized that he would need to neutralize the archers, but as to how he had no idea. He let the shaft of a third arrow find a new home in the third man’s neck, but as for the fourth he would have to fight him face to face.
The man with red was who was left. Artem placed his bow in the tree to keep it safe, then pulled his sword and jumped to the ground. A small jump for him, he fell about thirty paces to the ground and rolled to his feet. Surveyig the area from the ground, he noticed that most of the men fell back, a handful guarded the fourth man, and now one was heading at him. A quick thrust felled the man with a hole in his lower leg. Another man ran at him with a giant two-handed broad sword. Artem ducked under a heavy swing that would have taken his head off. Rising up, he meant to make an upward cut, but his opponent made a skillful block with his own blade and pushed back. Trying to keep his footing, Artem waited for his attacker to strike first. As he expected, the man made a strong thrust at him. All muscle, no brain.
Artem parried the thrust and slashed at his back with less than considerable force. He fell bleeding, but he would live. Everything was working out for Artem at the moment, but as he looked up, he noticed that his fourth original target was forcing his way through the defenders while unsheathing a gold-hilted sword. Apparently, the men knew this came down between their leader and the attacker, for there was a ring of men creating somewhat of an arena. Perhaps it was meant to frighten Artem, but he felt confident in the situation.
His opponent was rather lanky like an inexperienced cadet, but his hard face spoke of many expeditions and rough travelling. The man came at him swiftly and light-footed, effortlessly moving from stance to stance. Artem could barely keep up with the repetitive swings to the side and overhead, and was caught off guard when he would switch stances seemingly without moving. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he caught on to a pattern that the man kept repeating. At the first opportunity, he swung hard to counter a side attack, which knocked his opponent’s blade away from him, and then he swung upward at an angle and made a slash over the chest. With a final blow, he swung straight across cutting the man’s head off.
Artem bent over to wipe his blade on the man’s cloak then sheathed it. He looked around at the men, who didn’t seem eager to attack him anymore. Although a few stared in awe, most seemed to not even care. After perhaps a minute, a gruff voice yelled something nearly incomprehensible. The men moved away and formed lines in accordance to rank. One man stood in front of the body of men and removed his helmet.
“I am Quinn Al’tura of the house of Panthred. I am the leader of the Silver Steels, a band of rogue mercenaries.” He motioned a hand at the men behind him. There must have been about forty men, by Artem’s guess. He relaxed a bit, but was still ready to pull out his sword.
“I know who you are. Who I am is of no importance. Now, unless you want more bloodshed,” he motioned to the decapitated body next to him, “you will listen and give me your services.” He gave a square level look at Quinn, who seemed to be balancing weights in his mind. One of the men near the back spoke up.
“We do not serve elves!” Other men began to rally with him.
“Silence!” Quinn barked at the men. “I will hear what you have to say, in private.” Quinn handed his helmet to a man behind him as well as his sword. After doing so, he looked at Artem expectantly. He sighed and dropped his own sword, then to earn a bit of trust, he dropped one of his many hidden knives. Quinn looked at him curiously then dropped his belt knife. This confirmed Artem’s caution and he knew that the man carried at least two more knives. The man was trying to beat him at his own game, but this was only the beginning. The two started walking away from the rest of the men, always eyeing each other cautiously.
At a spot well away from sight of camp, the two talked for close to an hour. Artem explained his situation. He came from the elven nation of Dorivtale, translated as Dawn of the River. There, men mercilessly destroyed his village. Artem tried to hold back his distaste for men, as well as his utter disgust of trying to hire them to fight with him. But whatever he tried to hold back, Quinn questioned; making holes in his story seem to explode. The more Artem tried to cover up, the more skewed his story became. Finally, Quinn seemed to have enough.
“As far as I’m concerned, our previous employer’s are dead. Count yourself lucky that we were already paid. Along with our dead employers, you wounded some of my men, which doesn’t sit too well with them or me. And now, you want to have our “services”? All of this to get revenge on one man?” He spoke sarcastically like he was scolding a child for a poor prank. Artem stood there until he was done talking then looked at the man closely.
“Do you have family?” He asked slowly. Quinn looked back at him with a bit of shock. He seemed to scrap his brain for an idea of what to say. Finally, he sighed and talked slowly.
“Yes, I do. I mean, I did. My father died in battle when I was a boy. My mother died in a barbarian raid less than a year later. After I got over it, I married a nice woman. Of course, she and my two children died of illness while I was away.” There was pain in his eyes, but he quickly covered it up with a hard face. “Very well, we will…accompany you. Or rather, you will accompany us. I will tell the men something to satisfy their curiosity and not have them kill you. From here, we will go to the city of Barchune. There we will temporarily disband and look for leads on possible employers. However, you and I will look for leads on who gave the orders to destroy your village.” He looked at Artem sternly, but he knew that he wasn’t doing this for standard work. There was something more to his story, but he wouldn’t press it.
“We’ll leave in the hour,” Artem stated as he started to walk back.
“You don’t give the orders,” Quinn replied heatedly. “We will bury these men, have a meal, and rest for the night. Tomorrow we will march.”
“Fine, I will be leaving in the hour. I will be traveling ahead anyway. I mean no offense, but your armor doesn’t make you an effective scout.” Quinn looked puzzled and sat to ponder this for a moment as the elf continued to walk away. Artem just hoped his diplomatic skills had been enough.
He never left, but rather found a perch on a tree to keep an eye on the camp. Quinn disappointed him, even though the man kept to his word. They all took time to bury the four men who died, say something about them or for them, and erect symbols in their honor. Artem could remember seeing a similar ritual after the fight at his village. A shame there was no one to bury the rest of the fools. After the ritual, Quinn and his men began to set up camp, and Artem began scolding him in his mind. By the time the men had fires built and meals ready for cooking, he made himself comfortable in the tree for the night.
He entertained himself with a game he learned from his father as a child. He pulled some bark away from the tree, careful to select the loosest he could find. It was actually a game that couldn’t be won. The object was to pick two pieces of bark and try to fit them together. He remembered the words of his father when he was teaching the game; You may as well melt rocks with your hands. But Artem had taken a new approach. He examined the bark closely, looking at the patterns on the edges. He then tries to tear bits away from the other pieces of piece of bark. Of course, he still hasn’t gotten the pieces to fit. It was once said, even before his father’s time, that if you could fit them together, you will have the blessings of the woods. To Artem, it was nothing more than a way to pass the time.
Now, as the sun rose, Artem simply sat and pondered his next move. He had forty armed men to gain the trust of before he controlled them. Even then, it would be difficult to strike an army of no less than five thousand. “It will have to do,” he told himself.
I will try to post more later.
Warriors of revenge
A shape ran through the woods, as quiet as a deer. Running by tree after tree, never slowing but always watching. He suddenly stopped in a dimly lit clearing. Artem Tu’shung'khal stood nervously and shifted his bow between hands. He knew he needed to work quickly. Scanning the clearing with brandished golden eyes, he chose a nearby tree. Artem smiled to himself with the thought of all the times he spent climbing trees without limbs as a child in the village. The thought was immediately erased; this was no time for thoughts of times past. He was far from home now, or what was left of it.
After climbing more than twenty spans up the tree, he began pulling himself up into the thick branches. He could only hope that the scarce foliage would keep him hidden long enough. Positioning himself in the crotch of a sturdy limb thicker than his own body, he began shifting his equipment – a short bow, loaded quiver, short sword, and small traveling pack. Shifting his equipment was done meticulously so as to make minimal noise while creating a larger range of motion. Finally satisfied, he sat and as left with his thoughts. He knew he had done this a hundred times before, but a voice in the back of his mind whispered of failure. Pessimism could hinder him, so he tried to think of other things, but the only thought that came to mind was that of failure. His thoughts wrestled in his mind for some time until he came up with his own argument. He had done this before; it’s the same as hunting. This time was just different game. As he wrestled in his mind, he mechanically pulled a freshly fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bow, resting it on his knee preparing to wait.
How much time passed, he couldn’t be sure, but a faint rustle of leaves was heard. Before Artem could consciously think, the partridge feathers were at his cheek and he was aiming at the sound. He nearly laughed to himself as he found a squirrel running along the ground. He briefly thought of shooting the plump rodent, perhaps the only food he would see all day, but quickly decided against it. An arrow in the ground would alert any enemies who saw it. Climbing down to retrieve the arrow and squirrel would cost precious time and risk the possibility to be seen. Artem could not afford that. It may be like hunting animals, but this was not one to underestimate. Besides, the squirrel hadn’t noticed him; perhaps any experienced woodsmen would take it as a sign of safety. With his argument settled, he cleared all thoughts out of his mind.
It was late afternoon and Artem may as well have been sleeping with his eyes open. Yet at the sound of a twig snapping over a hundred paces away, he could shoot to kill. That is, if he knew what creature he was shooting at. All it took was time and patience. However, time had become the enemy. Just be patience once more, than I can have my revenge. Just then, he heard footsteps, rhythmic and controlled. Silence was obviously not a high priority. Artem snapped to attention, fletching already to his cheek.
Off in the distance, he caught glimpses of reflected light. He knew he could shoot a squirrel at a nearly thirty paces, and he had proved himself in the village by shooting targets at eighty paces. Still, for a moment he doubted his skill. Shooting squirrels and targets was nothing compared to firing at armed and trained men. With a well-developed discipline, he pushed panic out of his thoughts as he readied himself. He figured he could fire two, possibly three arrows before he was spotted. Two or three would have done nicely, but he knew he needed at least four.
Seconds passed that stretched into eternity. Artem realized he had stopped breathing. He was as rigid and still as the tree he sat in as the first line of soldiers came into the clearing. Men marched, two abreast, with polished helmets and breastplates and wore swords at their sides. Watching them pass by, he figured he would need to wait for about a dozen men to pass before he would find his target.
Humans, he thought bitterly, I should try to kill them all. But he knew that their “services” were required. Finally he spotted his targets. Not much different from the rest of the men, but one wore a blue stripe down the bridge of his helmet. Next to him was another with a similar mark, only with a red stripe instead. Behind these two were two more men equipped with golden armor, a sign of valor and triumph – at least to humans. Artem needed to wait only a few more seconds; needed them to take just a few more steps. It will all be over soon.
In a tower over 500 leagues away, two men talked in a luxurious study. One man sat in a finely carved chair with velvet cushions filled with down feathers that were tacked to the seat. He was dressed more elaborately than a commoner would have been on a feast day. With a soft indigo hue on his coat and golden chains adding a sign of wealth. He sat with a goblet of lightly spiced wine, looking over a map on the table in front of him. The other man stood and propped his hand on the nearest bookshelf with his head down. He was dressed in the equivalent of rags to a nobleman, yet it was still finer than anything a peasant owned.
“It won’t work,” the first man said as he set his goblet down. There were pawn pieces on a map to represent soldier placements. “Our forces will be too spread out.” He spoke very matter-of-factly. He cared little about the lives of these men, but that was still more than the other man cared.
“Then what do you propose we do?” He said bitterly. He pushed himself off the bookshelf to stand fully, and looked down at the map. Both men could easily see the strategy. If the armies took two key cities, the armies would form a rough circle. From there, battles would spiral inward from village or city to the next. There would be little resistance until they reached the center where the strongest city lay – Tenshae. A city of perhaps a few thousand people barricaded against the “undefeatable” armies of the King. But Tenshae still stood independently, as it has for the past two decades. It was once a city under the King’s rule, but war had upset the entire nation. Tenshae broke free of the King, and promised to be a safe haven for anyone who wanted to be free. Consequently, the city has become a giant playground for refugees, barbarians, and even shadier characters. Taking the city back will bring these people to justice.
“Warolmer, your name may promise great victory in war, but this plot is too obvious. No doubt by the time we reach here,” he placed a finger on a village too small to be named on the map, “Tenshae will call all the remaining villages inside its walls and prepare to fight. Just in this area alone,” he made a circle with his finger, roughly halfway between the troops and the center, “there must be enough men to outmatch our current placements.” Apparently, the thugs of Tenshae had corrupted the villages surrounding it, and now they will fight along side them if they called for it.
He knew Warolmer did not care. He sat less than five paces away from the throne in the Great Hall. If he could take over Tenshae, he was sure he would be raised to advisor, or maybe even the head of generals. There, he could plan the King’s demise. The King was a confusing fellow. He would put on a show for the people by making a public appearance and talking to the people. Of course, behind closed doors he made plans to start riots and such. Then he would come in with his soldiers to settle the matter, letting the people believe he was the kind and just ruler they thought he was. Warolmer knew he was a coward at heart; he was too soft for Warolmer’s liking. But for now, as he had been for eleven years, he must be patient.
“If we place troops here,” he moved pawns with a stretched hand; “we could try to-“
“Warolmer,” the man said quietly holding up a hand. “Let it rest for half a year. By then we can have reinforcements in there. By then, you should have enough power to crush Tenshae.” He spoke firmly in a flat voice, but kept staring at the map as if thinking of other things. Warolmer thought briefly of it then let his hand drop.
“Oh, very well. Half a year. I suppose I will have to keep myself occupied with local affairs.” He more spat rather than spoke with a look of disgust on his face. Local affairs meant dealing with peasants, collecting taxes and the sort. “In any case, I’ll be off to my chamber for the night.” He walked wearily to the door as if he hadn’t slept in days. As he touched the handle, he spoke quietly over his shoulder, “And remember, keep your bloody tongue in your skull. Perhaps someday I’ll have further use for you.” With that, he opened the door and left.
The other man sat and listened for the door to close. He let a quick curse out of his mouth and cleared the pawns off the map. He then rolled it up and stored it back on the shelf it came from. A she sat back down, he picked up his goblet and took a long drink, finishing what was left in it. Licking his lips, he picked up a pawn from the table with his free hand and studied the small piece of wood. “Jhordy, ol’ boy, what have you gotten yourself into?”
The sun rose over the horizon, but Artem was still awake. He kept recalling the attack he made the previous afternoon.
He let the fletching go from his cheek. He could see it plunge into the neck of one of the gold-plated men. He died before even letting out a yelp, but Artem had already drawn another arrow and let it fly. The first man’s counterpart fell before he even noticed the other’s death. However, the other men realized what was going on. They went on the defensive, scanning the area for their attacker. Most had already drawn swords, those who hadn’t were reaching for their bows. Artem vaguely heard people shouting, but he did see men pointing in his direction. He realized that he would need to neutralize the archers, but as to how he had no idea. He let the shaft of a third arrow find a new home in the third man’s neck, but as for the fourth he would have to fight him face to face.
The man with red was who was left. Artem placed his bow in the tree to keep it safe, then pulled his sword and jumped to the ground. A small jump for him, he fell about thirty paces to the ground and rolled to his feet. Surveyig the area from the ground, he noticed that most of the men fell back, a handful guarded the fourth man, and now one was heading at him. A quick thrust felled the man with a hole in his lower leg. Another man ran at him with a giant two-handed broad sword. Artem ducked under a heavy swing that would have taken his head off. Rising up, he meant to make an upward cut, but his opponent made a skillful block with his own blade and pushed back. Trying to keep his footing, Artem waited for his attacker to strike first. As he expected, the man made a strong thrust at him. All muscle, no brain.
Artem parried the thrust and slashed at his back with less than considerable force. He fell bleeding, but he would live. Everything was working out for Artem at the moment, but as he looked up, he noticed that his fourth original target was forcing his way through the defenders while unsheathing a gold-hilted sword. Apparently, the men knew this came down between their leader and the attacker, for there was a ring of men creating somewhat of an arena. Perhaps it was meant to frighten Artem, but he felt confident in the situation.
His opponent was rather lanky like an inexperienced cadet, but his hard face spoke of many expeditions and rough travelling. The man came at him swiftly and light-footed, effortlessly moving from stance to stance. Artem could barely keep up with the repetitive swings to the side and overhead, and was caught off guard when he would switch stances seemingly without moving. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he caught on to a pattern that the man kept repeating. At the first opportunity, he swung hard to counter a side attack, which knocked his opponent’s blade away from him, and then he swung upward at an angle and made a slash over the chest. With a final blow, he swung straight across cutting the man’s head off.
Artem bent over to wipe his blade on the man’s cloak then sheathed it. He looked around at the men, who didn’t seem eager to attack him anymore. Although a few stared in awe, most seemed to not even care. After perhaps a minute, a gruff voice yelled something nearly incomprehensible. The men moved away and formed lines in accordance to rank. One man stood in front of the body of men and removed his helmet.
“I am Quinn Al’tura of the house of Panthred. I am the leader of the Silver Steels, a band of rogue mercenaries.” He motioned a hand at the men behind him. There must have been about forty men, by Artem’s guess. He relaxed a bit, but was still ready to pull out his sword.
“I know who you are. Who I am is of no importance. Now, unless you want more bloodshed,” he motioned to the decapitated body next to him, “you will listen and give me your services.” He gave a square level look at Quinn, who seemed to be balancing weights in his mind. One of the men near the back spoke up.
“We do not serve elves!” Other men began to rally with him.
“Silence!” Quinn barked at the men. “I will hear what you have to say, in private.” Quinn handed his helmet to a man behind him as well as his sword. After doing so, he looked at Artem expectantly. He sighed and dropped his own sword, then to earn a bit of trust, he dropped one of his many hidden knives. Quinn looked at him curiously then dropped his belt knife. This confirmed Artem’s caution and he knew that the man carried at least two more knives. The man was trying to beat him at his own game, but this was only the beginning. The two started walking away from the rest of the men, always eyeing each other cautiously.
At a spot well away from sight of camp, the two talked for close to an hour. Artem explained his situation. He came from the elven nation of Dorivtale, translated as Dawn of the River. There, men mercilessly destroyed his village. Artem tried to hold back his distaste for men, as well as his utter disgust of trying to hire them to fight with him. But whatever he tried to hold back, Quinn questioned; making holes in his story seem to explode. The more Artem tried to cover up, the more skewed his story became. Finally, Quinn seemed to have enough.
“As far as I’m concerned, our previous employer’s are dead. Count yourself lucky that we were already paid. Along with our dead employers, you wounded some of my men, which doesn’t sit too well with them or me. And now, you want to have our “services”? All of this to get revenge on one man?” He spoke sarcastically like he was scolding a child for a poor prank. Artem stood there until he was done talking then looked at the man closely.
“Do you have family?” He asked slowly. Quinn looked back at him with a bit of shock. He seemed to scrap his brain for an idea of what to say. Finally, he sighed and talked slowly.
“Yes, I do. I mean, I did. My father died in battle when I was a boy. My mother died in a barbarian raid less than a year later. After I got over it, I married a nice woman. Of course, she and my two children died of illness while I was away.” There was pain in his eyes, but he quickly covered it up with a hard face. “Very well, we will…accompany you. Or rather, you will accompany us. I will tell the men something to satisfy their curiosity and not have them kill you. From here, we will go to the city of Barchune. There we will temporarily disband and look for leads on possible employers. However, you and I will look for leads on who gave the orders to destroy your village.” He looked at Artem sternly, but he knew that he wasn’t doing this for standard work. There was something more to his story, but he wouldn’t press it.
“We’ll leave in the hour,” Artem stated as he started to walk back.
“You don’t give the orders,” Quinn replied heatedly. “We will bury these men, have a meal, and rest for the night. Tomorrow we will march.”
“Fine, I will be leaving in the hour. I will be traveling ahead anyway. I mean no offense, but your armor doesn’t make you an effective scout.” Quinn looked puzzled and sat to ponder this for a moment as the elf continued to walk away. Artem just hoped his diplomatic skills had been enough.
He never left, but rather found a perch on a tree to keep an eye on the camp. Quinn disappointed him, even though the man kept to his word. They all took time to bury the four men who died, say something about them or for them, and erect symbols in their honor. Artem could remember seeing a similar ritual after the fight at his village. A shame there was no one to bury the rest of the fools. After the ritual, Quinn and his men began to set up camp, and Artem began scolding him in his mind. By the time the men had fires built and meals ready for cooking, he made himself comfortable in the tree for the night.
He entertained himself with a game he learned from his father as a child. He pulled some bark away from the tree, careful to select the loosest he could find. It was actually a game that couldn’t be won. The object was to pick two pieces of bark and try to fit them together. He remembered the words of his father when he was teaching the game; You may as well melt rocks with your hands. But Artem had taken a new approach. He examined the bark closely, looking at the patterns on the edges. He then tries to tear bits away from the other pieces of piece of bark. Of course, he still hasn’t gotten the pieces to fit. It was once said, even before his father’s time, that if you could fit them together, you will have the blessings of the woods. To Artem, it was nothing more than a way to pass the time.
Now, as the sun rose, Artem simply sat and pondered his next move. He had forty armed men to gain the trust of before he controlled them. Even then, it would be difficult to strike an army of no less than five thousand. “It will have to do,” he told himself.
I will try to post more later.
