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"Untitled Fantasy Story"

Well, as I wrote this one, I realized suddenly that I was starting to get really into all this military stuff. This one involves such things and how they're jerking people around. Oh, and ya gotta stick around for the fight scene - I think I did it pretty well. Aaanyways, I've wasted enough time; I now give you . . .



"The Veteran"

Not to repeat a cliché, but I have been from one end of the world to the other. I have fought in dozens of wars, battled hundreds of warlords, and gone blade-to-blade with thousands of fighters. Some of those battles I lost, though much more of them I won. Not many had the ability to stand to me when I raised my axe high above my head. If a man hadn't already begun running away with streaks down the back of their pants, my steel would have them running blood down the sides of their heads. Long story short: I kill things well.

It was this . . . talent that brought me into the citizen's militia. I became one of the best in the group, and I knew a jump to greater things was coming to me. This was around the same time the Khanduran Stormtroopers were making another recruiting round. To see them come to our small urban base was truly an honour. They were the best of the best, proudly marching through the streets of the city, and righteously beating down the opposition to the nation. Nothing had ever slowed them down - not the criminal underground, or the Ascorbians . . . or the whining of peasants (they complained about too much in these dire times anyway). Needless to say, I signed up as soon as possible. They turned me away; it seemed that I was "too old, too short". It was perhaps one of my most crushing defeats - a blow I had no chance of recovering from. I had yet to see a dwarf that could rise to their standards.

The rejection was strange for me. There had been very few times when I was forced not to fight. For me, it was generally the other way around. For the better part of my life, I have always been an enlisted soldier, fighting for this cause or for that nation. I guess I was just hoping that sometime I could be something special - something other than just another entry-level grunt. The stormtroopers could have been my chance for that . . . . .

"And that . . . is what's wrong with Khanduras today." I finished me rousing sob story and got murmurs of condolence from the table of tavern-patrons. Another man in the bar bought me a drink, which I graciously accepted.
"You know," the young man tells me, "there's been a lot of military stuff going on lately. Haven't you considered the army?"
"That does seem to be my only option, doesn't it?"
"But hold on," another tavern guest spoke, "I see most of the kids that enlist and they're barely old enough to grow the hair on their chins. Wouldn't that work against you?"
"Bah, I've been growing my beard since I was their age as is!" I chuckled to the people. "But yes, ye do hold a good point . . . perhaps I can get into officer's training or something . . . . ."

And that's what I did. I volunteered myself into the Khanduran military as someone that could lend a century of warfare experience to the young ears. I think I worded that a touch too literally, though; indeed I was an officer - they made me a drill sergeant.

It wasn't the glamorous path I had been hoping for. It wasn't another great battle on the fields, striking fear into the hearts of my foe; I was babysitting some boys, teaching them how to use the pointy end of the stick! The recruits themselves weren't very well mannered towards me either. It seemed to stem from my being not of human flesh . . . that wasn't getting them or me anywhere. I recall my first exercise with them as a very sad day . . .

I had the men running around the armory, and after their second lap I couldn't help but notice a decline in their numbers as they came back into view. I ran over, and sure enough behind the armory sat five of the recruits (taking a short break, I guess).
"Ye'd better have a good excuse fer this!" I yelled at them.
"Uh, no sir!" one of them shouted
"He means yes, sir." came another, between the childish giggling of the others. "You see, Rigel fell and hurt himself, and we wanted to make sure he was alright, so . . ." I gave him an annoyed expression that stopped his stalling.
" . . . . . All of ye?" The boys stifled more laughter.
"Well," replied the first, "all of us only know a little bit about medicine, so we felt all our knowledge together could help." More muted snickering ensued . . .

I asked which one of them was hurt. Rigel responded, complaining about his ankle. I had several experiences with such things, so I quickly jerked the man's foot; I did it in such a way that it should have caused the man to cry like a baby (that is, if it really was injured). Rigel said it kind of hurt - the bastard was faking. I immediately held his ankle high, told him to brace himself . . . and I palm-striked him in the tendon above his heel. A loud, crisp, pop echoed across the camp, with Rigel's voice attempting to rival it's intensity. The other four jumped back and started shouting (racial) obscenities at me - clearly not something to do to a superior officer. I told the recruits to take Rigel to the apothecary, and they took off double-time. They got their running after all . . .

I henceforth became known as the biggest bastard drill sergeant at camp. All the young men either hated me, were scared of me, or a little bit of both - I was fine whichever way. Of course, after breaking so many of their bones, ye'd think they'd start to focus on their matters, but no. The retards were still screwing around! I was getting very, very tired of my job. I was supposed to be out on the field beating the crap out of somebody; I wasn't supposed to be teaching this fine art to some ingrate that didn't even want to learn it!

The commandant was just past the soldier's barracks. I stormed up to him, slamming doors as I came to him.
"Sir, why am I here instead of out there?" I asked him.
"What do you mean?"
"Why am I not out there fighting my fighting?"
"You think this is your fight?" he scoffed. "Last I heard, dwarves weren't recognized that highly in this region." My knuckles started turning white.
"True, this was not my original birth-land, but I still have full intention of raising my blade for this country." I barely got the sentence out of my mouth before the commandant rebutted me.
"And that's why we need you here: to train Khanduras' children in its time of nee . . ."
"What Khanduras needs is to stop wasting its time and mine!" I yelled at the commandant.

A bit of my spit twisted out as I did this, and landed on his chest. I would have figured a response like that would cause a man to lose it, but not the commandant. He just smiled fiendishly and looked down to me.
"Well, if that's what you want, then that's what you shall have . . . . . recruit." He glared at me once again with his holier-than-thou eyes. "Do you get me?"
"Yes, I get ye . . . sir."

And just like that, I rejoined the ranks of the meat-troopers - to live and die by the horde. I was given a suit of mail, a small, wooden shield, and a pithy, bludgeoned, needle-of-a-sword. I was put in a lance of twelve with a group of snottish-recruits that didn't know a sabre from a dagger! As for the lance corporal, well . . . when I was an officer I was mean, but at least I was competent . . . As each day passed, I grew more and more weary of this army and its cold, faceless nation.

About a week or so into my induction into the forces, a message was sent down to us from some very high place.
"Alright," our lance corporal told us, "we have our first mission." A very casual cheer went up; I said nothing. "It seems there's some sort of rebel-vigilante in the Tartraz that has blockaded supplies and killed our soldiers."
"Who were they?" a tall man in the lance asked.
"They were from the 2nd Khanduran Scout Division." 2nd Scout - that was a stormtrooper division! It appeared someone else had also made that connection.
"One person took out stormtroopers?"
"Yes," the corporal responded. "Clearly we're dealing with some kind of inhuman monster of sorts." I quietly clenched my gloved fist at the remark.

We marched out the gates of the city early in the evening, and headed towards the valley. Along the ground I could feel some heavy footfalls from other gates. Clearly our lance was not the only one in the operation . . . I ran out of formation up to the corporal and asked him,
"Just how many men are . . ."
"Get back in formation."
"Answer me first." The corporal conceded.
"They're sending the entire division." I snapped. I didn't care about this mission anymore; no single fighter, regardless of skill, is worth sending an entire division of an army! There'd be no skill with such odds; there's no glory in such a one-sided battle; there was no honour in this fight. If the country was this insecure about itself, then I wanted nothing to do with it!

"That's it," I told him, "I'm finished with this operation." The corporal retorted,
"No you're not. Now get back in formation."
"This is a pointless endeavor."
"We have our orders."
"Order my arse! I'm leaving!"
"You will do no such thing!"
"Shut up, you . . ."
"Get back in formation, stuntie!"

I don't even really recall the next brief moment. All I remember is after the corporal uttered his last remark I just acted instinctively. The corporal was in the ground with his nose bleeding, and my fist was tingling slightly. The rest of the lance stopped dead in its march behind us. From his vantage on the ground, the corporal shrieked,
"Kill that treasonous freak!" My lance had no objection to acting hostile towards me (they always had been anyway, except now they'd get to use lethal force) - I could only wait for the first one to charge.

Play the music!

The first rank all drew their swords and ran headfirst at me. I drew my own blade and waited . . . and dashed straight at the lead charger. Being a dwarf did have its advantages during such moments - while he kept running at me, my blade was already leveled, gut-level. He fell quickly. The remaining soldiers started encircling me, and the rest of the lance continued to advance. A quick melee of exchanges took place, and the poor green fighters started to see their problem. If I was parrying one's slash, I was simultaneously back-fisting someone with my shield, spraying teeth and blood in all directions. Another man tried to take advantage of my moment's business and came at my flank. When I saw him in range, I sidestepped his attack and kicked him full-force in his kneecap, snapping it in a direction it was never meant to bend.

I still had a fresh mental map of where everyone was in relation to me. The corporal had just barely gotten to his feet and appeared to be readying his battle-axe. That lapse in concentration allowed my third simultaneous attacker to swing his sword down onto my outstretched arm. With years of practice and timing, I flexed, catching the blade between my bicep and forearm. The blade bit into me, but my muscles inhibited it from getting away. I quickly took that man's own arm off with a hard strike, and I let the dismembered piece fall to the ground - the sword still clenched tightly. The other two came to decide on a synchronized charge from opposite ends of me. I rolled out of the way just in time to see them run each other through (definitely a green mistake!). While both of them were still standing, staring into each other's eyes, I took their heads off with a single spin/swing.

As the two heads fell, they landed near the rest of the lance. The rest didn't appear to be attacking anymore. I turned to the corporal, who was already in mid-swing with his axe. His struggle lasted a little longer than the others, but was a futile effort nonetheless. During one of his horizontal swings at my head I ducked . . . and got a beautiful view of his exposed side. I stabbed into his underarm area, and he dropped the axe. I proceeded to uppercut him in the jaw, causing him to drop to his back; bloody and beaten. I picked up his axe (which was of extremely fine quality and how he had it I'll never know . . .); the remaining men in the lance backed away from me. I spoke to them,
"If ye value yer lives, I suggest ye don't follow me." None of them did.

And so my military career in Khanduras officially came to an end. I'm sure they weren't going to miss me, as I wasn't going to miss them. I had a feeling I was going to be back, though; I, however, wasn't too sure when. Clearly going back now would be my execution . . . I looked to the Tartraz valley. Obviously there was someone in there that also seemed to hate the Khandurans with a passion as well . . . and whoever it was, he was going to be in trouble soon enough. I quickly holstered my new axe, and took thought as to my next action . . .

Clearly I just might get my glorious battle after all . . . . .