Ulbarich, son of Gerbold (einhajar) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-09-09 13:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | ithacles, ulbarich |
defenseless (ithacles)
Buttoned up. That was what they used to call it, back in the old days. Ulbarich had heard more than one of the young men say something to signify that the sick, infirm and otherwise useless in a fight were secure in the bitch house. Just as the mayor had objected to the term, so did they. They seemed to think that being a soldier was something akin to being a knight. They prowled with their hands on the hilts of their swords and talked of dying honorably, of being remembered. Ulbarich was never more frightened than he was in these moments before the fight was on. Yet he knew that when the fight finally did come, hot blood would assassinate his nerves. There was no desire, nor need, for an honorable death here. In fact, the mute soldier hoped fervently that he might live. Which was strange in and of itself.
That sensation had not come in quite some time.
In the bleak days after his injury he'd discovered something about himself. The will to live was a fragile thing, it required careful tending, and in the end the slightest pressure could break it into nothing. Ulbarich had found his desire to live broken into nothing. And yet he was far too much of a coward to die. In those days with a knife in his hand, alone in his room, he could have slashed himself to pieces before anyone could stop him. Yet he'd only laid there and contemplated the knife in silence. Steel forged for a purpose, and once broken, truly destroyed forever. Was it so with men? If he was broken, if he truly was shattered and separated from his original purpose, then this fight would prove that. Would it not?
"Captain," one of the soldiers had approached him. "Where do you want us?"
They were both young men, barely older than Ulbarich when he'd first enlisted. Their fine coats, so new when they'd left the castle, were soiled beyond repair now. They were learning what it meant to be soldiers, Digging ditches, lining those ditches with greased wooden spikes, then covering the ditches with loose foliage. Ulbarich had taken his turn digging when there was little else to do, but there had been so many hands that the work was accomplished quickly enough. And now you could see them in the distance. Or at least, you could see their fires. Low clouds had rolled in as the day wore on; orange light was catching against those same clouds. More than one villager had assumed there was a fire. Only because they did not think about how far the smell could carry.
Ulbarich jabbed his finger at the first line, which was little more than a collection of stones and wooden beams meant to serve as cover for pikemen. It had been carefully arranged around the bitch house. Much of the fighting was going to take place in the streets. At least, Ulbarich hoped that it would.
Instead of answer, the men looked at one another, then to the fortification.
This time, the older Captain jerked his head toward that line of stone.
"Captain," the younger said. "We've no experience with pikes, sir. We only..."
"That is," said the second, when the first could not continue. "We don't know how to..."
Ulbarich snapped his fingers angrily. Once, twice, three times. As urgent as his snaps were, the running of that young villager was even more urgent. He double-timed himself into Ulbarich's reach, with a pike cradled very carefully in his arms. Nobody was going to mistake this boy - he must have been no older than fifteen - for a soldier. And yet he was standing a post, with a pike in hand. It was almost twice as tall as him. Ulbarich snatched the pike out of the boy's arms. The great weapon rotated in his hands once. Twice. Windmilling was nothing more than a busy exercise for idle hands. Yet it created space between Ulbarich and his students.
The mute's stance widened. First, a high block, both hands gripping the haft tightly. Next down and from the side, sweeping with the wicked edge of the thing. It came low and moved back, into the "reload" position. One fast and vicious thrust forward, where a belly would be. Where an orcish belly would be. They were staring at him in shock. Or, Ulbarich supposed, a sort of disgruntled enlightenment. They had not been chose to serve in the hill country because they were not real soldiers. Today they were going to be more real than all of their father's friends, and they didn't appreciate that. They were worried about honor and dignity. Ulbarich repeated the three martial stances again, this time much faster. A third time. And then he heaved the pike back to the boy.
The growl in his throat was deep. All three dismissed themselves from his presence so as to find the best place to stand.
This sleepy hamlet was not the place for a great battle. It was not even the place for a minor battle, if the truth was being told. These people had dealt with orc threats before, but not like this. This party was experienced in raiding. For one, they did not attack as soon as they were discovered. Their night sight was better than a human's. So they waited until the moon had ruined visibility before they moved. Even now the last kisses of the sun were fading in the memory of the sky. Even now they were coming closer to the time when the orcs would finally make their move. There Ulbarich stood, in front of the bitch house, with perhaps half an hour to decide what to do. Stay with the pikes? Or mount up and wage this battle from horseback?
Prince Ithacles was on his way, with a heavy look upon his face. That might settle the issue at last.