Post by Seek on Aug 12, 2012 8:18:33 GMT 10
Title: Leviathan
Rating: R
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: The belly of the beast
Word Count: 810 words
Summary: Aniki meets someone in a burning town. Warning for graphic violence and hints of unpleasant things done in war.
-
The streets of Hvadrskirlund are burning. Scanran towns are rickety things of wood and lots of wooden thatched houses and the port town has been set to the torch. Warlord Haakon Bladthskellar’s men have set the town to the torch and given enough heat, even stone blackens and cracks.
There is little stone in Hvadrskirlund.
The town burns and smoke rises in tall grey columns to paler skies. Warlord Vali Kjaskaddur must answer the insult, Aniki knows, and where the soldiers go, there’s work for a good sword to be found.
She hears a sharp cry, too high to be anything than that of a child’s. The town burns under the invading army, but Aniki dashes towards the sound, keeping away from the burning, tumbling, falling houses. Embers scatter in her path; splinters fly. She cannot abide leaving a child in the blaze of the empty town, at the heart of the inferno of flame and steel.
Men in chainmail and leather jerkins, in the colours of Bladthskellar have cornered a little girl, a scrawny little thing with the pinched cheeks of deprivation. As smooth as thought, Aniki’s sword flashes forth from the scabbard at her side.
They don’t hear her coming, and she doesn’t believe in warnings. There are four of them, but Aniki is more than their equal, and none of them have studied under one of the best swordsmen in Scanra. Chainmail with leather points means the armpits and groin and neck and the unarmoured legs are the best places to strike, and so Aniki glides forward and stabs the first in the thigh without fanfare.
The second strikes at her, and she dodges, palming her dagger. As her sword withdraws, she coolly notes the first will bleed to death eventually. He collapses to the hard ground, which means he’s no longer an immediate threat. A simple game of block-and-thrust ends the second, when she blocks the incoming slash with her sword and then extends her arm so her blade tears through the soldier’s throat in a fountain of blood.
Now.
If the third and fourth are in any way intelligent, he’ll hope her sword jams in his fallen comrade. They’ll try to flank her, to take her on together. Many rushers make the mistake of thinking the only dangerous weapon a swordsman has is the sword. She counts to three, makes her best guess, and flings the dagger backward. Don’t hesitate, her old swordsmaster says and she hears the sound of impact as the soldier cries out.
Her sword is back out and ready to meet the fourth in a shiver of steel and blood and then she chances a glance back. Her dagger’s driven straight through the eye of the third and he lies still upon the ground. Probably dead.
She closes in on the fourth, closer than any swordsman feels comfortable going. She can read the fear in his eyes: he knows he’s going to die. She stomps on his instep, slashes at his hamstring, and then turns and the final blow falls and parts his head from his neck.
The sword slides home through flesh and bone and muscle and she doesn’t turn her face from the spray of arterial blood. Then it is over in the matter of a minute. Nothing but the sound of her quickened breathing, the moaning of the fallen men, and the child now silent.
Aniki bends and scrubs her sword clean on a handful of snow and jerkin. There’s a nick in the blade, where she drove it forward in a block. She’ll need hours with a whetstone to scrape it free.
“Are you fine?” she asks the girl.
Pale eyes stare back at her. “You killed them,” the girl breathes. Aniki isn’t sure with exactly what; but there’s awe in those eyes, and some gratitude. “They were going to—”
“Shhh,” Aniki says. She knows what soldiers can do. She bends down to retrieve and clean her dagger because she doesn’t believe in losing good steel. The girl’s clothing is torn where they’ve grabbed her and the bruises stand out clearly on her skin. She takes off her jerkin, her breath misting even in the blazing town and tosses it to the girl. “Put that on.”
The girl does that, obediently. Aniki slides her sword back into its sheath, puts away her dagger. “Follow me. We have to leave.”
“They killed Mama,” the girl whispers. “I can’t find my Papa.”
“Later,” Aniki says. “We can’t stay here. You must be quiet, understand? Or they’ll hear us.”
Too-solemn eyes watch her, and nod. She sighs quietly to herself, and listens for voices. Hvadrskirlund is a war zone now, and she cannot fight her way through an entire raiding party.
But if there’s one thing she resolves to do: she’ll bring the girl out through the inferno, alive.
Rating: R
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: The belly of the beast
Word Count: 810 words
Summary: Aniki meets someone in a burning town. Warning for graphic violence and hints of unpleasant things done in war.
-
The streets of Hvadrskirlund are burning. Scanran towns are rickety things of wood and lots of wooden thatched houses and the port town has been set to the torch. Warlord Haakon Bladthskellar’s men have set the town to the torch and given enough heat, even stone blackens and cracks.
There is little stone in Hvadrskirlund.
The town burns and smoke rises in tall grey columns to paler skies. Warlord Vali Kjaskaddur must answer the insult, Aniki knows, and where the soldiers go, there’s work for a good sword to be found.
She hears a sharp cry, too high to be anything than that of a child’s. The town burns under the invading army, but Aniki dashes towards the sound, keeping away from the burning, tumbling, falling houses. Embers scatter in her path; splinters fly. She cannot abide leaving a child in the blaze of the empty town, at the heart of the inferno of flame and steel.
Men in chainmail and leather jerkins, in the colours of Bladthskellar have cornered a little girl, a scrawny little thing with the pinched cheeks of deprivation. As smooth as thought, Aniki’s sword flashes forth from the scabbard at her side.
They don’t hear her coming, and she doesn’t believe in warnings. There are four of them, but Aniki is more than their equal, and none of them have studied under one of the best swordsmen in Scanra. Chainmail with leather points means the armpits and groin and neck and the unarmoured legs are the best places to strike, and so Aniki glides forward and stabs the first in the thigh without fanfare.
The second strikes at her, and she dodges, palming her dagger. As her sword withdraws, she coolly notes the first will bleed to death eventually. He collapses to the hard ground, which means he’s no longer an immediate threat. A simple game of block-and-thrust ends the second, when she blocks the incoming slash with her sword and then extends her arm so her blade tears through the soldier’s throat in a fountain of blood.
Now.
If the third and fourth are in any way intelligent, he’ll hope her sword jams in his fallen comrade. They’ll try to flank her, to take her on together. Many rushers make the mistake of thinking the only dangerous weapon a swordsman has is the sword. She counts to three, makes her best guess, and flings the dagger backward. Don’t hesitate, her old swordsmaster says and she hears the sound of impact as the soldier cries out.
Her sword is back out and ready to meet the fourth in a shiver of steel and blood and then she chances a glance back. Her dagger’s driven straight through the eye of the third and he lies still upon the ground. Probably dead.
She closes in on the fourth, closer than any swordsman feels comfortable going. She can read the fear in his eyes: he knows he’s going to die. She stomps on his instep, slashes at his hamstring, and then turns and the final blow falls and parts his head from his neck.
The sword slides home through flesh and bone and muscle and she doesn’t turn her face from the spray of arterial blood. Then it is over in the matter of a minute. Nothing but the sound of her quickened breathing, the moaning of the fallen men, and the child now silent.
Aniki bends and scrubs her sword clean on a handful of snow and jerkin. There’s a nick in the blade, where she drove it forward in a block. She’ll need hours with a whetstone to scrape it free.
“Are you fine?” she asks the girl.
Pale eyes stare back at her. “You killed them,” the girl breathes. Aniki isn’t sure with exactly what; but there’s awe in those eyes, and some gratitude. “They were going to—”
“Shhh,” Aniki says. She knows what soldiers can do. She bends down to retrieve and clean her dagger because she doesn’t believe in losing good steel. The girl’s clothing is torn where they’ve grabbed her and the bruises stand out clearly on her skin. She takes off her jerkin, her breath misting even in the blazing town and tosses it to the girl. “Put that on.”
The girl does that, obediently. Aniki slides her sword back into its sheath, puts away her dagger. “Follow me. We have to leave.”
“They killed Mama,” the girl whispers. “I can’t find my Papa.”
“Later,” Aniki says. “We can’t stay here. You must be quiet, understand? Or they’ll hear us.”
Too-solemn eyes watch her, and nod. She sighs quietly to herself, and listens for voices. Hvadrskirlund is a war zone now, and she cannot fight her way through an entire raiding party.
But if there’s one thing she resolves to do: she’ll bring the girl out through the inferno, alive.