Musings on Killing Broos...

So here we are yet again, braced and ready for the bloodletting; chaos is coming for us with no fear and no quarter offered.

I smile beneath my helm, for Yelm is rising in the east as they approach us at the run – released from his bondage to look down upon me as I show my might and skill. In this moment I see him as the slave that he is.

Darkos has done his work well this time. We know of their approach and are set and ready. He launches his arrows from his newly crafted dragonbone bow and the broos are falling one by one ‘til they reach us numbering only six – two each. Nothing.

My magic is up and the first makes the mistake of thinking me fearful of his foul countenance. You may carry the spirit of Malia about you, goatkin, but you will never make me afraid, for I am reborn of the Dark, and in visions of the underworld and its many spirits I have seen true fear and it is not chaos. You are not a thing of this world and all I need do is guide you back from whence you came. Here, my spear shows the way.

His face does not have the time to show the face of death, so quick does it come upon him. I ram my spear up through his gut, feeling the resistance of his innards, and then, with a twist-and-pull that’s second nature, my spear is free and I take a few steps back and to the side, to give him his space to die.

My companions fare worse, for Grant is not himself lately. He has been given a great gift from Orlanth, and yet has not fared well in battle ever since. Perhaps the gift is tainted, or perhaps it’s just what Leotychides used to say on the drill ground, “Stick to what you know and keep it simple, stupid.” Still, unless these broos are cursed with some vestige of the Devil in their armoury, I doubt that Grant will fall to them.

The next is on me now, and he gets more of the same – dead in a blow, and now I can help Gramper. I am getting accustomed to this one, now. He’s a weird one, for sure, but he’s loyal as a hound and there’s simplicity about his manner that smacks of honour and truth. He cares not enough about the material to have a use for deception. When I awoke from the ritual on the hill, it was Gramper who had stood watch over me through the spirits’ screams.

Still, he’s no fighter yet, though he’s game enough. He faces down two of the broos although he has difficulty felling even one. “Have that from me spirit-watcher”, I think as I lay one of his foes low with another powerful strike.

So soon they are all dead and dying. We leave them to the desert, and I plunge my spear into the sand to cleanse it of their foulness. I look across at Darkos – seems so strange to see him on a horse. How can one man have such divergent wit in battle? One time he’s laying down bowfire like it’s going out of fashion, and hitting as often as not. The battle against the broos was his as much as ours, for he shaped it and won it before it had been joined. And yet, mere weeks ago he makes such a hash of his judgement that he all but kills Gramper.

I shake my head at the strangeness of our companionship. Three years ago we were all soldiers. We have seen companions come and go, but we three are still here, and how do we look now? Grant is now the image of the true Orlanthi, covered as he is by the wyrd woad.  His thoughts turn ever to the Dragons, and it is difficult to discern a motive in his actions. Darkos is as enigmatic a Uroxi as you’re ever likely to meet. He carries his hatred as an inner fire, unlike those Storm Bullers who wear their rage for all to see. Perhaps it is the nature of this inner rage to force its way to the surface and take the form of rash action? I know not.

So, to the east we march, under Yelm’s hard glare. We drink the water that Gramper bartered from the baboons. And after two more days in this harsh land called Prax we see the first signs of civilisation – a valley stretches out before us, scored by a river that glistens silver in the sun, and miles away, in its basin is a mighty city of white walls.

As we march down, our horses trailing behind us, we pass forts and steads and small villages. Eventually we see that the mighty city is nought but a gargantuan ruin, but at its base sits another town, made of the same stone, but sitting in miniscule imitation of its mightier brother. I have heard of this city, and its reputation is not good, but after the desert it is a paradise of sorts, and perhaps these inhospitable surroundings will offer us a refuge that we have been unable to find in Dragon Pass?

Only Time will tell, but as I slept there that first night I dreamed only of the wind on far off snowy peaks...