A ride Towards Harsh wisdom: Chapter three (1)

“ Valette, you need to stay still, I can’t do the stiches otherwise.”

“ Just hurry up please, it’s irritating me”

“ You never complain about her touching you at night, oh Madam D’orzerge.”

“If you even think about grabbing your prick Demlun, I shall rip it off and feed it to you!”

It had been five days since Rilleux Lacrossie and his fellow pilgrims
had passed into the woods of Txarral, under the guidance of Mer Papin.
On this fifth day, an hour past noon, he and the others were taking a
minute to rest after another bloody skirmish, this time against a pack
of xaran Dreagonlings. They were laying in what appeared to be the ruins
of an old fortress, though all that remained where the walls, which
where overgrown with moss and vines. Their horses where tied to trees
about thirty yards away, standing quietly and chewing what grass they
could get. In this open space, they could feel the cold sunlight upon
them, and Rilleux silently thanked the stars that there had been no rain
today.

Every one of his limbs ached, and added to the squelch of copious
sweat under armour, on a body that had not bathed in days, Rilleux could
safely say that he wasn’t comfortable. He knew his companions all felt
similar to him, and that was the surest reason behind the increased
tension. All of them had snapped at each other in the course of the
week, with Valette and Demlun nearly coming to blows. Even Rohais, whom
Rilleux had assumed to be as kind and patient as anyone, had sworn at
all of them a couple of times. Still, she was the only one who ever
apologised afterwards.

While they sat around, Mer Papin had left them for a while, as was
his custom after any skirmish. They’d stopped questioning his absences
days ago, and simply let him come and go as he pleased.

He and Rilleux had not had any kind of meaningful conversation since
their talk before entering the forest, which had left the young warrior
time to dwell on the old man’s advice regarding “ Balance, in all
things.” He felt he had a good understanding of what that truly meant by
now, and had thought of some ways about how he could apply that to his
life. Still, there was a nagging doubt in his mind that he was
misunderstanding something, and it was vital. Yet he couldn’t articulate
what this was, so he had no idea how he’d ask Mer Papin about it. Not
that he’d had any clear opportunities over the last few days, with all
that they both had to do.

Yet he now had no regrets whatsoever about bringing the old man
along, and even if they weren’t talking to each other all that often, he
was glad of his company. He knew that Franclerk and the rest of them,
no matter what other petty disagreements they had, could all unite in
one opinion: Without Mer Papin, they’d be dead.

Since the first day they entered the woods, Mer Papin guided their
path with such wisdom and care, that they could almost be convinced he
was no mere man, but some kind of spirit of the forest. He seemed to be
able to see through the thick trees, finding the best paths for them to
ride. At least once an hour he would stop, and put his ear to the
ground. After a minute or so, he’d get back up again, and point the new
direction in which they were to go.

The going was never easy, the forest every bit as wild and rough as
they’d been told, but it seemed like Mer Papin was letting them avoid
the worst of what Txarral’s woods had to offer. There were rumours of
young warriors letting their horses ride into bogs, and sinking with
them without a trace. Add that to the hundreds or so other rumours about
poisoned leaves, sheer drops over waterfalls, and all kinds of other
lethal dangers, to not be paranoid in these woods was to be foolish. Yet
the young pilgrims could safely say they’d managed to avoid any
unnecessary danger. They owed all that to Mer Papin, and more
importantly to the fact that they always listened to him. Even Demlun,
who’d never been one for respecting authority, shut his mouth and paid
attention when Mer Papin spoke.

But to avoid any kind of peril would have missed the point of the
pilgrimage, as they were tasked with bringing back tokens and trophies
from slain foes. If pitfalls where one danger, ambushes where another,
either from men or beasts. Their hands were always ready to draw their
weapons, ever anticipating an attack.

Yet once again, the wise guidance of Mer Papin proved to be their
salvation. Rather than fight off sneak attacks at every turn, it was
them that could pick and choose their battles, and even launch sneak
attacks on their own.

On their first day in the woods, Mer Papin had found the trail of
what appeared to be escaped prisoners. Fugitives often made their way to
Txarral, and they could be from anywhere. What exactly they hoped to do
once they got here, no one could guess, but it seemed that desperation
was the most obvious motive.

Mer Papin had bid them dismount and follow him on foot, as he would
do so for every subsequent encounter they would have. Tying up their
horses, they let him lead them to where the fugitives were camped.

They found them in a small clearing, not so much camped as huddled.
There were twelve of them, eight men and four women, and their ragged
appearance made it impossible to determine just how old any of them
where. None of them had any armour to speak off, but all of them carried
weapons of some kind, be it a shortsword, hand axe, or rusty dagger.

If any of these criminals were worth something in terms of a bounty,
it was of no matter to Rilleux, or his companions. Taking prisoners was
out of the question, and even if they did, those they managed to drag
back to Illpialle would simply face a swift hanging.

They’d been able to sneak fairly close to them, Mer Papin letting
them go on ahead once they’d caught sight of their targets. The old man
had no illusions about being much of a warrior, preferring to let the
youngsters get their hands dirty. Still, Rilleux suspected that he might
have something up his sleeve when he needed it.

Once they had gotten closer to them, it was time for Franclerk to
demonstrate his talent with a bow. The third son of the count of Boug
had missed out on inheriting the family sword, as well as the mace, so
in response he’d dedicated his martial training to an unfashionable
weapon for nobles to use.

When the first arrow pierced the neck of a fugitive who’d gotten up
to piss against a tree, his companions began to understand the merits of
his rigorous daily training. Their understanding grew even stronger as
he strung and loosened another arrow in a matter of seconds, striking
another fugitive straight in the heart before the ragged band had fully
processed that one of them was dead. A few more seconds, and another was
down, this time one of the women with an arrow right between her eyes.

Feeling that the odds where now even enough, the pilgrims broke cover
and descended upon their foes, who were just now realising the
situation they now found themselves in. The odds were still against
Rilleux’s group, two to one, but they had the advantage of years of
brutal training, and the element of surprise.

It wasn’t a long battle, but it was bloody. Rilleux remembered
bashing his shield full into the face of one man, a skinny specimen who
fell to the floor with blood streaming from his face. He’d let Valette
finish him off, driving her greatsword down into his neck, while he
covered her back against a new opponent.

This was a bigger man, who carried a large club. Using his shield
again, he blocked the heavy downward blow of the club, the force of it
causing a jolt of pain to go through his arm. Powering through it, he
stabbed his blade forward, finding his mark in the stomach of his foe.
The brute let out a howl of pain, dropping his club, yet he did not fall
down. Rilleux could sense him trembling, as he did his best to tug his
sword out of his flesh.

Realising that Rilleux was now effectively stuck, the burly man soon
overcame his pain. Raising his arms above his head, he bought his two
fists down upon the young warriors shoulder, missing his head by inches.
The force of the blow made Rilleux loosen his grip on his sword, and he
staggered back a foot or two, slightly shocked that his foe had that
much adrenalin left.

Before he could even ready himself for another blow, he saw his foe’s
head separate from his shoulders. As the large body fell to the ground,
Rilleux saw Demlun smirking, fresh blood on his twin swords.

“ Keep up Rilleux, I can’t always save your arse!”

Ignoring the jibe, Rilleux went to retrieve his sword from the
freshly made corpse. Upon looking up, he observed the battle was all but
over. Rohais was bringing her mace down upon the head of a cutlass
wielding man, the force of the blow causing his brain matter to splash
against the ground. Three fugitives lay dead at her feet, all bearing
evidence of her blows upon them. Franclerk was retrieving an arrow from
the man he’d killed mid-piss, it being buried deep in the man’s
windpipe. Demlun and Valette where facing each other, three dead bodies
showing signs of their blades. Valette was staring daggers at Demlun,
who bore a smug look upon his face.

“ You know that last one was my kill, you Curly Cuntbag!”

Demlun shrugged his shoulders “ Should have been quicker then, that’s
the disadvantage of carrying about that massive thing. That’s a brute’s
tool, no finesse at all.”

“ Shove your finesse up your arse sideways, before I put this brute’s tool there myself!”

Luckily, the three other pilgrims were able to stop this argument
resulting in another dead body, Rohais embracing her lover from behind
in order to sooth her rage. Franclerk glared at Demlun, but said
nothing. With disaster averted, the grim business of cleaning up after
the battle could begin.

In around an hour, they gathered the corpses, put them in a pile, and
started a fire in order to burn them. Whilst they did this, they also
cleaned the blood off their weapons and armour, Rilleux’s sword in
particular smothered in gore. They also took time to take a few breaths,
the work of the skirmish, though short, being more than a little
strenuous.

In time, Mer Papin joined them again, and congratulated them on a
well fought engagement. He told them he’d been watching them from a
tree, and had been impressed by all of them. He bade them follow him
back to their horses. Which were still safely tied up.

Thus, every day they had fought at least one skirmish, all of which
were challenging, but not foolhardy. On the second day, they came upon a
pack of wolves, prowling by a pond as they took their daily drink. In a
similar manner to how they took out the fugitives, they were able to
ambush them, Franclerk’s arrows piercing more than a few fur coats
before the fight proper began. Rilleux fared a little better in this
engagement, at least in his opinion, felling three wolves by his own
hand. Of course, he still couldn’t keep up with Rohais, the Castellan’s
daughter killing twice that amount. Her movement in battle was nothing
short of amazing, the swing of her mace almost looking effortless in its
grace and brutality. In this fight, Rilleux also observed Franclerk
making use of his training in Hudlavet, the unarmed fighting style that
was traditionally practiced by archers, when they needed to get up close
and personal.

On the third day, they came across a pair of the brutish creatures
known as Grukshex ogres. These humanoid, grey skinned monsters stood at
twice the height of a man, with arms and legs as wide as tree trunks,
and faces so hideous that looking upon them made ones stomach turn.
Hoilettan children’s tales spoke of these creatures as bone-eaters, who
kidnapped wandering truants in order to cook them in a stew. Rilleux
remembered wetting his bed one night after seeing them in a nightmare,
and even looking upon them now made his bladder feel weak. If looks
weren’t bad enough, their stench made them all queasy, and Rilleux could
not begrudge Demlun for vomiting into some bushes.

Yet once again, they had the advantage of being able to ambush their
foes, and the battles they’d faced had hammered home the fact that they
were no longer children. The two ogres were walking through an open
area, side by side, and the pilgrims had been able to follow their
tracks without needing Mer Papin’s aid.

Franclerk had fired an arrow directly into the larger one’s back,
hitting it in the middle of its spine. The ogre let out an almighty
roar, slumping to its knees with a thud. It continued to roar in
frustration, but it could not move a muscle, the arrow having hit a
vital nerve, causing almost total paralysis.

Meanwhile, the smaller ogre had noticed the others predicament, and a
sniff of the air told it where the arrow had come from. Within moments,
it was charging in Rilleux and the others direction, mouth frothing in
rage as it made to smash them into dust.

If they had not planned for this, the pilgrims might have wilted in
fear. But their nerve held, and they stood in a tight cluster as the
ogre approached. At the last possible moment, they stepped in unison to
two sides, men on the right and women on the left. The ogre charged
through where they had been standing, and as it did so, each of the
warriors struck, stabbing and bashing the charging monster upon its
flanks.

The ogre certainly felt their blows, yelling in pain as it ran past
them. However, none of them were foolish enough to believe the fight was
over, and the fact that their foe was already turning to charge them
again proved that there was more to do. The monster was bleeding from it
sides, but it’s movement didn’t seem all that hindered, its pace still
as quick as ever as it made its way forward.

It made a beeline for Franclerk, who was aiming a shot directly at
the ogre as he charged. He fired, and the arrow went straight into the
deep forehead of the ogre. If Franclerk had expected that to be enough
to slay the beast, or even slow it down, the loud yell and increased
pace shattered all those hopes. The archers face turned a deathly white
as the ogre bore down upon him, blood pouring down its face in a mask of
fury and terror.

Dropping his weapons to the ground, Rilleux, moving as quick as he
could, leapt towards Franclerk, tackling him to the ground and out of
the way of the charging monster. Tumbling to the side at the last
possible moment, the pair of them crashed to the ground in an
unflattering heap. Rilleux felt the ogre move past them, and silently
thanked the stars that he’d been quick enough. Franclerk winced, the
force of Rilleux’s tackle enough to crack an unarmoured man’s ribs, but
the look on his face conveyed all the gratitude in the world.

Rilleux turned his head to see Demlun running towards the ogre, and
in a blink of an eye he was leaping on its back, twin blades sinking
into its shoulders. Rather than falling over, the ogre began to flail
around wildly, Demlun’s swords stuck in it’s flesh. Demlun began to
cling on for dear life, legs swinging in the air as the ogre moved
around, it’s arms reaching behind it’s back in a futile attempt to pry
the irritant off.

Those efforts stopped abruptly the moment the ogre felt its right
kneecap crack apart, courtesy of a blow from the mace of Rohais La-
Harpenay . Rilleux could almost feel sorry for the creature, the sound
of the bone cracking truly hideous.

As the ogre slumped to one knee, it’s right leg now entirely useless,
Valette made her move, plunging her greatsword deep into the ogres
belly. Another yell of agony escaped its mouth, and Demlun took this
chance to leap down to the ground, leaving his swords where they were
for now.

Again, these blows did not prove to be enough to take the ogre down.
Valette was now in a similar predicament to Demlun, her weapon lodged
right in the creatures flesh. Valette tugged with all her might, but to
no avail, and the ogre was now turning its head towards her. Slowly it
began to raise its left arm, winding up for a devastating strike. Rohais
let out a cry of panic, moving towards her lover.

Rilleux’s instincts took over, and he leapt to his feet.

With a voice as loud as he could physically manage, he yelled out “ HEY, UGLY, OVER HERE!!”