Strom’s Hate

They were the last of their troops, and from opposite armies. The wind passed cold and bitter through the fields of tall grass around them, carrying hungry crows in lazy circles above the golden waves. They stared at one another with tired arms and burning lungs, the red wash of a blood-skirmish all around them. Strom’s detachment from the main Vilharthan expedition had sought to scout for more Median forces high in the mountains that locked their homeland in its fertile valley, but instead all of them had fallen prey to roving mercenaries under the prince’s employment. The battle had been long and fruitless, every swordsman put down by someone better or more opportunistic on either side, until just two remained: Strom, and the nameless warrior in front of him.

The other warrior was tall and terrifying. Wrapped in thick cords of muscle with skin burned leathery-brown by the suns of the south, and no longer wearing armor except scars and a horned helm that obscured his face. His long hair hung loose beneath its metal. The warrior’s broadsword had been broken, and his shield dashed to ribbons before his mail-shirt was shredded.  He stood lazily picking ringlets of iron from a shallow gash in his shoulder, his cleaved blade in his non-sword arm. Strom already hated him.

Strom grimaced beneath his own helm and readied his sword and kite-shield. While they were both yards from one another he was indifferent to slaying another man despite the war, least of all a paid fighting man who sought no ideal save the gleam of gold and the prizes it could buy him. A sour taste filled the Vilharthan’s mouth, and he glowered across the ring of trampled wheat beneath bodies and blood. Strom decided he could make an exception.

He had long held that the most ruthless and hate-filled won in war, and Strom knew of no person more capable of anger or violence than himself. It’s why he’d made sergeant, and why he’d stayed that rank rather than become a captain or join the cavalry. Hate let one best one’s enemies, but one had to temper hate with those that deserved it, and any who challenged Strom deserved it.

“It seems we are both routed,” Strom called out to the man, “Your captain cannot vouch for your pay, nor can I return to my own forces without accusation of desertion and cowardice. If we lay down arms, at least we can scrounge the battlefield and use what we find to last the night.”

The helmed stranger gave no words in return, but bent low to retrieve a shield from a fallen comrade, and a blade from one of Strom’s dead allies. Strom cheered inside his bitter mind, glad for a final opponent, but decided to see if the stranger would take the easy route.

“We don’t have to do this you know. It’s easy. My army is dead and so is yours, there is nothing left for us except to move on.”

With ominous silence the stranger strode forward, brass-greaved boots stalking up the hill and over corpses, his red sash moving in the wind like a crimson waterfall that was played with by the breeze, staining the earth below it with its color. Strom’s heart grew bitter with anger, and he hated all that was around him: the earth, the grass, the crows, the dead, but most of all he hated the stranger. He hated his silence. He hated his commitment to the slaughter. He hated his skill or luck or whatever had led to his survival. He hated the color of his clothes and the color of his skin and his immunity to the damnable cold. Strom tightened his grip on his blade and drew up his shield as the warrior strode closer.

The silent stranger pointed at the ground with his sword, motioning for Strom to lay down his arms. The Vilharthan snorted.

“Surely you jest? You expect me to lay down my sword while you stand armed. I think not. Answer and promise that we’ll have peace and I’ll sheathe my blade.”

The stranger did not answer, only lowered the gaze of his fierce helm to the direction of Strom’s feet. Strom’s hate grew stronger, and his adrenaline pumped harder in his veins. He steeled his mind against the battle to come, wickedly greedy for more violence.

“Very well. If I am to die, let it at least be by my own people!”

And with that he lashed out at the stranger, bringing his sword in with a massive overhand chop that would cleave a man to his sternum. The blow met the buckle of the silent stranger’s shield, sparking in the air as he swung at his helm with the edge of his shield, bringing it around in a huge hook. The stranger stepped back, raising his sword to catch the blow while shoving forward with his shield to disengage Strom’s forearm. His moves were lazy, tired — as were Strom’s — the signs of the combat before showing in their sluggard movements.

Panting, Strom focused his anger and stabbed forward, the point of his sword meeting the wood of the warrior’s shield, the sword warped, bent, and he quickly pedaled backwards. The warrior’s own broadsword came down to ring hard and heavy against the metal edge of Strom’s shield, sending numbing vibrations through his arm. Steel sprang back into shape as Strom pulled his blade free, sending a fist sized chunk of painted wood flying, and he roared as he leapt forward with a sideways swipe. The red helmed warrior ducked low, readying to pounce, and raised his shield, punching the sword out wide and sprang forward with his own stab. Strom brought the kite-shield up just in time.

Steel rang on steel, and the two warriors slipped in the mud made from blood and earth, tumbling down through the waist-high plains. End over end they went, Strom cursing and hating the whole way down, until at last they crashed into a rock, Strom’s own armor absorbing the blow as he threw the helmeted stranger off into the grass. Strom’s head swam, and the Vilharthan warrior struggled to make his head aware of his surroundings. There in the grass next to him, he saw the pommel of the broadsword the silent stranger had dropped, like a ball of steel in an ocean of gold, his hand swept out and caught the leather-wrapped handle, and he pushed himself to his feet. At last he’d end this damned wretch here and now!

Two feet of crimson stained steel pushed through Strom’s stomach as the stranger ran his own sword through his back. He felt a hand on his shoulder through the white-heat of pain, and there was a jolt of force as the stranger pushed harder and put it to the hilt through his middle.

Strom fell to his knees and coughed up blood, his head growing light as the warrior came around, lifting his helmet from his head. His face was a crag of a thing, worn and scarred, pocked by plague or acne, two smoldering dark eyes beneath long brown hair. Across his throat was a bright white line, a scar of considerable age and depth, as though his throat had been slit, or he’d been hung. Realization stung at Strom’s heart as hard as the blade in his belly, and he tried to choke an apology to the warrior in front of him. Instead, he just spat out wads of scarlet phlegm. Hatred, so long an ally in war, had blinded him, and now he paid the price for his over-reliance on wrath.

The mute warrior lifted Strom’s broadsword from the earth, and turned to face Strom as tunnel-vision began to set in. Strom felt the chill of steel on his neck, like he was being knighted, or shaving without water. He tried to fill his lungs, but he couldn’t move his chest.

“Do it.” he rasped.

And all went dark.