Berserker Part 12

Jarn tore through the brush, hopping over fallen logs and treacherous dips in the trail. Moving as if a demon from the deepest pits of some unnamable underworld were in hot pursuit. Breath ripping in and out of his lungs, heart racing, panic lending his feet wings, he closed the distance to the lead wagon in record time. He barely avoided crashing into one of the guards by slamming into the ground before the surprised man’s feet. Jarn looked up into the wide brown eyes of the old man who carried the longsword, his name he had heard was Aniston though he had never really talked much with him. He got up to his knees with the aid Aniston’s aid, and tried to speak, only coughing and choking, Jarn had covered at least half a mile in a few moments, his lungs refused to spare the tiniest bit of air for any other use.

Aniston slapped him on the back and waited until Jarn could catch his breath before he questioned the scared boy.

“What’s wrong lad?”, he asked as kindly as possible.

“Monsters... up ahead”, Jarn replied between gasps for air, his head down, concentrating on slowing his breath. “They look like dogs but stand on two legs”. Jarn hadn’t noticed them until one managed to get up behind him, it was a little shorter than him with shaggy fur and a long, dog-like snout. It wore what looked like very poorly cured animal skins and leathers patched together, what Jarn saw that panicked him most was the others of its kind that were quietly moving through the underbrush. With great self control he had kept on chopping wood like nothing had been noticed, the thing behind him backed away and joined its companions. He continued acting oblivious to anyone’s presence for a few more moments just to be sure none were still around and then ran as fast as he could, it was all he could do to remember to keep from dropping his ax to get back more quickly.

“Gnolls?”, Aniston said. “Can’t be, they all disappeared before I was even born, but with the way things are going these days, it’s likely enough. Come on, lets go warn the others.”

As they marched to the rear of the wagon train, Aniston yelled out warnings and orders to everyone he passed, rattling off instructions without cease and addressing every single person by name. What would normally have caused panic, confusion, and people working at cross purposes if issued by any other man they found themselves obeying automatically, there was something in his voice that was used to having orders carried out.

They reached the guardsmen’s wagons quickly to find everyone in the middle of buckling on any spare or heavy armor they might find too cumbersome to wear constantly. Seryan donned a chain mail coat and hood, while the brother and sister team put even more leathers on. Jarn grabbed his other ax and strapped his father’s sword to his back as Aniston quickly relayed the story to the rest of the group.

“I want everyone to guard the flanks”, he said. ‘From what Jarn told me, they’re probably looking to make a quick ambush, which means they won’t try a full frontal assault. Millienya, I want you to find a good spot to work from”.

“Yeah, yeah”, mumbled the bruiser Tyrel, strapping on a bandolier of wicked looking throwing knives.

“Something wrong?”, Aniston challenged with his hand on his sword.

“No”, Tyrel replied in a drawl which was the closest he could get to intelligent sounding. “I just always get so sleepy whenever you open your mouth. Strange coincidence eh?”

“Hah, bloody, hah”, Karnar stepped in. “Let’s just hurry up, I don’t think those things will wait for you to finish this talk”.

They grabbed their crossbows and assorted personal weapons, Millienya switched her crossbow for an ornate shortbow that looked as if it were carved from bone and strung with sinew. They split up to take their positions. Aniston hustled up front to ride with the driver of the first wagon. The inseparable Seryan and Tyrel moved to cover the caravan’s left flank.

Before Jarn could choose who to pair off with, Karnar slapped him on the back. “You’re with me”, he said as he gave Jarn a grin, which was somehow not very reassuring.

Berserker Part 11

The scouts had all confirmed the size of the caravan and whatever valuables it were estimated to contain. It was a miracle that the little gnolls with their snorting, loud noses weren’t spotted. One of the newer scouts boasted that he got right up behind one of the big Furless ones that was out ahead of the wagons, hacking at the brush like a maniac and making enough noise for any Gnoll worth his salts to notice from up to a mile. They were all sure that he was lying, but it was normal for a young pup trying to one-up his betters.

Pack leader Bertrawr growled to himself with anticipation, he and his band of warriors hadn’t been lucky enough to find any decent looking pickings in the better part of a month. A number of fights had broken out recently and he had heard some disturbing rumors of a strong push by some of the more freethinking of the group to choose another leader. So this diversion was as much a welcome thing to Bertawr’s underlings as it was him.

He growled a string of unpronounceable syllables to a slightly smaller Gnoll who was the closest thing to a fighter of lesser rank among the primitive military which evolved over years of hard and practical testing. His best Longfangs would hold back until the Storm Canis had softened them up enough to provide little resistance. It was Bertrawr’s pride and joy to have the highly elite Storm Canis with him, only the most famous of the skirmisher units were assigned a group of the highly technological Storm Canis. They had to be sent directly by the chieftains of the Dog Nation. Most of the border fighters were only equipped with a bunch of fresh pups and some veteran Longfangs.

Once the rest of his dogs had formed up, he took his ritual place in the center of the formation. It was a common tradition to do so, it being logically the most secure place of the entire unit, so he was safe to think clearly and issue orders to his troops that were superior to the panicked and frenzied of the enemy. He received the “all clear” sign from his aid and waited.

Berserker Part 10

Jarn swiftly adapted to the life of a traveler, his clan had not had much belief in possessions, though it strongly urged being self sufficient, and this was something he was good at. In the morning he would awake earlier than the others and had learned after a few experiments that being in the front of the breakfast line didn’t necessarily mean that you would get the largest portions. Gerda had a network of cook aids, spies, and informants which allowed her to know at any time where someone was and how much work they had been doing. She was of the old school philosophy that the more work a person did, the more they deserved to eat. So Jarn would volunteer every morning to go out and cut firewood for her, he would return later with a cord of wood and, with a smile of gratitude and wink of approval from Gerda, would be given two-to-three times larger helpings than anyone else. With most people this would seem like gluttony, but because of Jarn’s impromptu starvation, massive size, and the fact that he worked harder than most anyone had ever seen kept him hungry too.

After breaking his fast, Jarn would load up his things into the guards’ wagon and go to see Terris, where he would then be given instructions for the day. At first they had tried to teach him how to use a crossbow. Things worked out very well and he could hit a target just as good as any of the others, but when he accidentally pulled the string back too hard when reloading one and ripped the crossbow in half, Terris had a fit and tossed him over to Kyle. Kyle was the caravan’s wrangler, he took care of the wagons and the animals that pulled them. Tragedy befell once again when a particularly nasty mule with an amazing sense of anatomy kicked Jarn as he was tying it up to the wagon with it’s team. The poor animal must’ve had at least three broken ribs from the punch Jarn sent it’s way.

Everyone was about to give up when Gerda commented on his ability with an ax. The idea of Jarn clearing and widening the trail, far ahead of them, where he could do no harm, was very appealing. So he would spend most of the day trudging ahead of the wagons with his war ax. Having accidentally broken through the wooden haft of one of the communal axes, he decided that the solid iron haft of one of his own beautifully carved masterpieces to be more sturdy and reliable than the dandy little things that the rest seemed content to use.

The scrub and pine which he was sweeping away was becoming less common. It was replaced by yew and other types of warmer climate trees. They were slowly working their way south. By the time Jarn would get to thinking about their destination and his strength would begin to flag, Kyle would call a stop to the procession and they would break for lunch.

One of the innumerable children Gerda had working for her would bring Jarn water and utensils for washing, she was a stickler for cleanliness and knew that he would work hard and stink bad enough to make the food gag by then. Lunch was normally salted pork with any number of pickled vegetables, hardly great fare but enough to keep a person going. Jarn would normally forgo the niceties of eating with the others and go back out to the clearing he had carved just hours ago. It gave him time to think and rest without being interrogated by the other, ever curious travelers. His only regret was not being able to see Millienya, she was in his thoughts more and more often. With her fine hair, blonde as cornsilk, and her radiant sky blue eyes.

After lunch, while he mindlessly chopped away at any offending plant matter in reach, a few camp followers or an occasional guard would visit him every so often to take away the fallen wood or bring refreshments. Sometimes he would get into a conversation with Seryan or Karnar as he worked, but the never once saw Lars though, somehow Millienya had managed to keep her word and Jarn did not have to worry about awaking with a knife stuck in him.

From these talks he learned a number of things. Seryan was from the distant city of Doneliss, a large city-state in southern Bretolia, which was the caravan’s destination as well as his. His father was a merchant that traded with a number of distant tribes in Kormusleiv. He had been sent in his father’s place to hammer out a new trade agreement with a tribe which had split off from another larger group. He was curiously reluctant to relinquish the details of his escapades. Jarn soon found out from Karnar that the reason he was so far from home and extremely quiet is that there had been a death in his family. His beloved wife and Jarn’s cousin-in-law, Katherine, had died while giving birth to their first child. What’s worse is that the child didn’t survive either. Karnar mourned for months, hardly sleeping or eating. Then one day he simply picked up his few belongings and left, he didn’t care where he went or how he got there. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand to live with Katherine’s death, so he ran away. A few days into his traveling he happened upon the camping caravan and joined them for lack of anything better to do.

Jarn didn’t move a muscle for the entire time Karnar spoke. It was absolutely awful about what happened. Jarn had known Katherine too and she was always in good health and full of life. Although he racked his brain, Jarn couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might possibly ease Karnar’s sorrow. All he could do was nod his head and go back to work.

Berserker Part 8

Lars met Jarn ahead of the groggy caravan. Gerda had the idea that they could make their travel easier by cutting trees that were alongside the trail down for firewood, thus widening the trail as they went. It wasn’t really a bad idea, but then again she wasn’t the one who had to lug huge logs off the path. It made Lars especially irritable because it had been Lars’ turn for the menial task three times in a row. That sophisticated young dandy in chain mail complained of a pulled muscle. Back in Klav people had done such tasks while suffering from the ice rot and not complained! So when Jarn picked a squat old ash tree to start on, Lars didn’t act with particular tact or a sense of self preservation.

“Hey, big oaf!”, he yelled as Jarn was about to dig into the tree. Jarn stopped, startled from the sudden noise. “Got rocks in your head, or just empty space up there?!”, Lars continued, bringing himself to stand directly in front of the man and having to look up to see his surprised features.

“Ash is a man-hating tree!”, he yelled up the taller man’s nose. “Look in those branches”, he indicated the upper regions of the ash’s expansive foliage. “See anything?”

Jarn followed Lar’s upward pointing finger to a large branch with holding a great deal of slowly decaying plant matter that numerous autumns had deposited from taller trees. Now it looked to have the density of a brick and contain the remains of smaller trees and numerous mummified squirrel and bird corpses.

“What should I be seeing?”. He unconsciously changed his stance to a more aggressive form, accentuating his height to discourage violence.

“Ash branches give way without a warning crack”, Lars responded in a slow voice Jarn recognized as being used on children and the mentally impaired. “Do you really want the load of rubbish crashing down on your head? I doubt that even your thick skull could take a knock like that!”

“Besides, Ash give off terrible smelling smoke”, he added, backing off a little.

Jarn took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He seemed to unfold after that thorough tongue lashing. Still, at least it was just a verbal lashing. He turned away from tree and Lars, and quietly counted out fifteen paces under his breath. He turned around yet again and let the head of the felling ax drop to be perpendicular with the ground. In one swift move Jarn whipped the ax over his head and brought it back down with a yell. He let the ax go at just the right moment, it pinwheeled until burying itself deep in the bark of the offending ash tree and a fingerlength from Lars’ ear.

“I”, Jarn simply stated, “happen to like the way ash smells”.

Lars just stood there with the ax quivering next to him, not knowing whether to scream in rage, fear, or soil himself.

Jarn caught his eye and pointed upward with a knowing grin. Just as Lars regained the coordination to look up, the bough with generations of the putrefying remnants of life, both plant and animal, broke. To credit Lars, this happened with absolutely no noise. Luckily, he managed to stumble aside before the heavy load came crashing to the ground.

He regained his breath to immediately get rid of it again by screaming, “You could have killed me! What were you thinking?!” Lars was shaking with rage and shock over almost dying.

Jarn remained still with a smirk of satisfaction on his face, “If you’re such the expert on trees then you should know not to stand so close”, he said.

Lars glanced up and down the trail to see if anyone was watching. Finding none, he threw himself at Jarn with a scream, trying to knock the other man over and kill him quickly. Jarn was caught completely unaware and was sent skidding on his back into the middle of the dirt trail. Lars kept up the attack by running up to where Jarn lay and attempting to bring his boot down on the other man’s face. Jarn managed to grab hold of the leg which was not raised in the air and twist it, toppling Lars. Jarn quickly got back up and ran over to the aforementioned ash tree. He then grabbed at the ax embedded in the tree, pulling desperately. But to no avail, Lars had managed to rise but was limping, he must’ve twisted his leg in the fall. He moved carefully over to the tree opposite from Jarn, where the other ax had been set down. He picked it up and hefted it, giving Jarn a calculating look, wondering if he could take the taller man with the advantage of an ax and disadvantage of a limp.

He obviously thought he could as he made his way toward Jarn. Jarn frantically scoured the ground for anything he could find, coming up with a study looking stick. He widened his stance and gave himself room to maneuver as Lars came closer, suddenly braking into a run! It had been a ruse, Lars was fine! Jarn charged forward to meet him and warcry on his lips that was swiftly echoed by his assailant. They were but a few yards apart as two arrows came whistling toward them, slamming home in the haft of Lars’ ax and the head of Jarn’s stick.

“Knock that off you two!”, shrieked a voice that they were both familiar with.

“S’right”, agreed a gruff man. “Where the hell is breakfast?”

The two would-be combatants turned to see half the camp was watching their fight. At the head of the crowd was Millienya and Tyrel, the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Seryan’s. Both were in the process of reloading their crossbows.

“Lars!”, Millienya yelled. “You finish cutting the wood and leave Jarn be!”

“He tried to murder me”, Lars protested in dismay.

“By the look of it you almost killed him too, so you’re level”, she countered. “You deserve whatever he did”.

Jarn put down his pitiful looking stick and walked slowly back to camp, while Lars stomped deeper into the woods, muttering to himself and cursing in a language Jarn didn’t understand. The camp watched him go with a mixed sense of anger and hunger, it was already mid-morning and very few of them had eaten because they couldn’t get a fire going. When they go to find out what the hold-up was, they find him tussling with the newcomer and ignoring their rumbling bellies!

“Are you hurt?”, Millienya asked in concern for Jarn.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to be wary of Lars, nothing more”, responded Jarn sullenly

The crowd dispersed with grumbling mouths and bellies as they got about their chores of packing up their things, taking care of the pack mules and horses, and a few small children collecting sticks in hope of cooking breakfast a little faster. Only Jarn and Millienya remained.

Why does Lars have to fight with anyone he ever meets? It’s not as if everyone else in the world is out to get him, well at least not until they talk to him.

“I apologize for him”, she said. “He just doesn’t get along with other people”.

“Really?”, Jarn said in mock surprise. “I thought he was being coy....If he doesn’t get along well with people, who does get along with?”

“Damned if I know”, she said theatrically throwing her hands up in surrender.

Jarn began walking back to the camp to load up his bedroll and other things into the guards’ wagon. Since Karnar vouched for him, people thought he must be a guard too.

“Jarn, wait”, Millienya said. “Don’t worry about watching Lars, I’ll keep him civil”.

“You have my thanks”, Jarn said, warming up to her a little. Jarn smiled to himself, liking the idea that someone else was looking out for him. And then there was the embarrassed smile he always received when facing her, it gave one pause to think about it’s implications. Jarn might just have an admirer.