From: rakanth@aol.com (Rakanth)
Date: 29 May 2000 00:43:58 EDT
The hardest day for him had been the first he departed from his solitary home. It was the same as always, simply a different name upon the contract.
The fields had been cool in the stretch of days he camped upon them. In theory, he hadn't been alone. Thousands like himself reigned the hilly grasses--waiting. Waiting to live, waiting to die... it mattered not, really. Not to the majority of them. The men, the humans, found little joy besides their purchased woman and booze. The Drow knew why they did it. It was so much easier to be lost in pleasures than to reflect on the gore you flung across the
field. Rakanth found himself more at peace in the realization of his horrid deeds, and so the sins of man were far removed from his days.
---
Screams filled a dawn-lit sky of fire as the masses of men collided in a wave of blood. Rakanth's blade cleaved through shoulders, hips, necks in an all too efficient machine of killing. The men that fell in his path were young, enlisted soldiers. Their eyes were too wild to fight, their arms too shaky. And so they fell. The massive Dark Elf hacked at them as he wandered the field, oblivious to the pain their cuts caused his flesh. He twisted
sharply, the pommel of his sword crashing into a young man's temple. The soldier sprawled on the ground, scrambling to get away. Rakanth saw a life of innocence in the baby blue eyes--then crushed his skull with the pommel efficiently. None of them would deal a destructive blow, be it from inability or fear.
As dusk darkened the skies, the battle had finished. Bodies lay crossed over one another about the standing mercenary and his remaining peers. There were few of them left, but the side that employed him this day would cry victory. None of their soldiers died. All of the enemy died. Only the hired help was lost.
As they stood amongst the havoc of death, the rain began, and Rakanth lifted his face to embrace it. Blood ran from his armor, from his hair, from his skin, and as the rain poured harder, he only felt cleaner.
In the end, the rain almost made the day tolerable.
The Hired Help
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From: rakanth@aol.com (Rakanth)
Date: 29 May 2000 20:04:01 EDT
He'd been thrust into command against his will. The three officers enlisted to lead the field of mercenaries had been slain during their latest "victory." Apparently, letter couriers arrive within hours, while Generals and Captains are weeks away.
"Rakanth Sli'arro:
The State is on the brink of defeating and conquering this land you serve upon. Our soldiers abroad..." Soldiers. Enlisted members of the formal military, not the mercenaries. "... are on the verge of victory throughout the nation. We order you to lead your seven hundred through the remainder of the campaign. To withdraw at this point would prolong a situation that could end in a week to lasting half a year's time. You will receive thrice your
decided pay. Failure to act as designated will be treason, punishable by execution via burning.
The State"
He had led men toward the snapping jaws of death before. For a time, Rakanth had been a low ranking officer yet charged to orchestrate a band of one-hundred Drow infantry within the army of his birth land. It had been short-lived, however, and long ago.
The Dark Elf had found their late General's maps. The progression was a simple march forward, eventually reaching the Capital. The city was to be conquered when they arrived, the war over. This route they took was to clear the scraggling militia. All the State needed was bodies to walk the path.
The rain still poured as Rakanth leaned over the map detailing their next encounter. The next day they were due to meet the last of two militias. Less infantry, a few horses, no archers. The ground there was low and no doubt deep mud all the way to the Capital. They would stand on dry terrain. The plan was formed.
Date: 29 May 2000 20:04:01 EDT
He'd been thrust into command against his will. The three officers enlisted to lead the field of mercenaries had been slain during their latest "victory." Apparently, letter couriers arrive within hours, while Generals and Captains are weeks away.
"Rakanth Sli'arro:
The State is on the brink of defeating and conquering this land you serve upon. Our soldiers abroad..." Soldiers. Enlisted members of the formal military, not the mercenaries. "... are on the verge of victory throughout the nation. We order you to lead your seven hundred through the remainder of the campaign. To withdraw at this point would prolong a situation that could end in a week to lasting half a year's time. You will receive thrice your
decided pay. Failure to act as designated will be treason, punishable by execution via burning.
The State"
He had led men toward the snapping jaws of death before. For a time, Rakanth had been a low ranking officer yet charged to orchestrate a band of one-hundred Drow infantry within the army of his birth land. It had been short-lived, however, and long ago.
The Dark Elf had found their late General's maps. The progression was a simple march forward, eventually reaching the Capital. The city was to be conquered when they arrived, the war over. This route they took was to clear the scraggling militia. All the State needed was bodies to walk the path.
The rain still poured as Rakanth leaned over the map detailing their next encounter. The next day they were due to meet the last of two militias. Less infantry, a few horses, no archers. The ground there was low and no doubt deep mud all the way to the Capital. They would stand on dry terrain. The plan was formed.
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From: rakanth@aol.com (Rakanth)
Date: 02 Jun 2000 00:22:33 EDT
Dawn spread its rosy fingers across the landscape, lighting the standing army of mismatched mercenaries. Moist grass crushed beneath the shuffling of their nervously shifting boots. They looked forward and inward. Grass stretched and faded into a swamp of mud before them. Their enemy would come that way. Archers stood poised at the rear.
The enemy's cavalry would sweep first from the right. Rakanth knew it. The mud was shallow there--the horses would prefer it. The enemy infantry would take the direct route through the mud and plan to meet the enemy cavalry upon the grass. They'd never merge.
The Drow paced before the line atop a massive war horse. It was one of two left alive. His gaze swept the dark plain of mud when he saw them, the cavalry, racing along the mud's shallow edge. Then, mid-center, slowly pushed the infantry. Rakanth's heavy blade pointed to the cavalry and a hundred men raced that way.
"Archers!"
The men echoed his call, bows were raised. "Release!" It was more of a gutteral roar than a word. Arrows flung high, arcing into the dawn before raining upon the mud-slowed foot soldiers running toward them. The squad of a hundred, meanwhile, drove the horses into deep mud where they floundered.
The enemy drove closer despite the suffering of constant arrow fire. The mercenaries waited.
Separated from help, the cavalry was surrounded. Unable to fight in the thick of mud, they were falling.
The first of the enemy's line stepped onto solid ground and the mercenaries charged screaming. It was like thunder as they rammed into each other. The mud turned red in an instant.
Rakanth's blade swept down from above like a God, cleaving through whomever was there. Reigning the outer-edge, he turned to the enemy's cavalry. They still fought. It was in that breath he felt his horse tip and fall, throwing him into the mud. A pair of hands held the scrambling Drow's face beneath the soupy darkness, pinning him toward death. The soldier soon felt Rakanth's hand grasping his wrist and was hurled to the ground, splashing. Both
rose, colliding in a series of steel ringing on steel. Rakanth was on one knee, deflecting and parrying. He was sure to die like this.
War is nothing more than deception.
The massive blade flew from Rakanth's hands with the next strike and he was on his back. The young soldier rushed forward, his short sword's tip down to finish the deed. He fell by a sweeping foot and Rakanth mounted atop him, pushing the sword toward the man's chest.
The soldier's hands were at Rakanth's wrists, vainly pushing upward. "Please, don't do it." The man-child looked into the Drow's eyes, pleading as the tip neared his chest. Tears streamed from the corners. "I'll do anything, don't. I'll join you. Please. My name is Tim. I have family." He struggled, the tip still descended. He could feel it on his sternum. "No, please, no." The young man released a cry as the steel penetrated his flesh and bone.
Rakanth silently prayed he'd let go, let the end be quick. But Tim still didn't believe he'd die. No one ever did when they entered battle. Someone had to die between them. It was an absolute, a way of war. Your chances of survival were always slim. But no one ever thought they'd die.
The short sword sunk deeper. "Please!" No one would hear. The heart of the battle was several yards from them. The next word was cut off by a choking from his chest. Tim's head tilted back and his arms weakened as the gurgling, coughing choking barked forward. And then it stopped. Tim fell limp. The short sword was shoved in to the hilt.
Rakanth rose swiftly, pulling free Tim's blade and sliding it into his belt as he retrieved his own large weapon of war.
The Drow looked up. The cavalry had all been slain and the survivors of that hundred, later found to be sixty eight, rushed to join the central conflict.
A ways from him was a single mercenary defending against two, sabre swinging. Rakanth stalked that way, drawing free Tim's short sword from his belt. Symmetric thrusts ran through the pair from the back. The surprised man he'd saved was young, perhaps twenty. It was a growing theme of these boy-men fighting and dying throughout this campaign. Maybe he was just too old. Tim's sword returned to his belt. "Come, boy."
Rakanth led the sabre wielding fighter back to the fray, where the Drow sliced through offending flesh without hesitation. The boy's sabre flashed and twirled, clearly outmatching his solitary opponent amidst the crowd. No death strike came. Rakanth's eyes narrowed, "Kill him!" The boy drew in a breath as he parried and sliced through vulnerable throat. Blood erupted. "Again!" The sabre stabbed deep as the boy mounted the fallen, relieving his guilt
and emotion by impaling the body again and again. The large hand of Rakanth shattered his trance, pulled him up to a stand and shoved him into the chaos again. The Drow went his own way, taking one life after another.
When the brutality had ended, the hired help was again victorious. They would camp upon the short mesa of dry land for the night and face the sun. Tomorrow, they would march again.
Date: 02 Jun 2000 00:22:33 EDT
Dawn spread its rosy fingers across the landscape, lighting the standing army of mismatched mercenaries. Moist grass crushed beneath the shuffling of their nervously shifting boots. They looked forward and inward. Grass stretched and faded into a swamp of mud before them. Their enemy would come that way. Archers stood poised at the rear.
The enemy's cavalry would sweep first from the right. Rakanth knew it. The mud was shallow there--the horses would prefer it. The enemy infantry would take the direct route through the mud and plan to meet the enemy cavalry upon the grass. They'd never merge.
The Drow paced before the line atop a massive war horse. It was one of two left alive. His gaze swept the dark plain of mud when he saw them, the cavalry, racing along the mud's shallow edge. Then, mid-center, slowly pushed the infantry. Rakanth's heavy blade pointed to the cavalry and a hundred men raced that way.
"Archers!"
The men echoed his call, bows were raised. "Release!" It was more of a gutteral roar than a word. Arrows flung high, arcing into the dawn before raining upon the mud-slowed foot soldiers running toward them. The squad of a hundred, meanwhile, drove the horses into deep mud where they floundered.
The enemy drove closer despite the suffering of constant arrow fire. The mercenaries waited.
Separated from help, the cavalry was surrounded. Unable to fight in the thick of mud, they were falling.
The first of the enemy's line stepped onto solid ground and the mercenaries charged screaming. It was like thunder as they rammed into each other. The mud turned red in an instant.
Rakanth's blade swept down from above like a God, cleaving through whomever was there. Reigning the outer-edge, he turned to the enemy's cavalry. They still fought. It was in that breath he felt his horse tip and fall, throwing him into the mud. A pair of hands held the scrambling Drow's face beneath the soupy darkness, pinning him toward death. The soldier soon felt Rakanth's hand grasping his wrist and was hurled to the ground, splashing. Both
rose, colliding in a series of steel ringing on steel. Rakanth was on one knee, deflecting and parrying. He was sure to die like this.
War is nothing more than deception.
The massive blade flew from Rakanth's hands with the next strike and he was on his back. The young soldier rushed forward, his short sword's tip down to finish the deed. He fell by a sweeping foot and Rakanth mounted atop him, pushing the sword toward the man's chest.
The soldier's hands were at Rakanth's wrists, vainly pushing upward. "Please, don't do it." The man-child looked into the Drow's eyes, pleading as the tip neared his chest. Tears streamed from the corners. "I'll do anything, don't. I'll join you. Please. My name is Tim. I have family." He struggled, the tip still descended. He could feel it on his sternum. "No, please, no." The young man released a cry as the steel penetrated his flesh and bone.
Rakanth silently prayed he'd let go, let the end be quick. But Tim still didn't believe he'd die. No one ever did when they entered battle. Someone had to die between them. It was an absolute, a way of war. Your chances of survival were always slim. But no one ever thought they'd die.
The short sword sunk deeper. "Please!" No one would hear. The heart of the battle was several yards from them. The next word was cut off by a choking from his chest. Tim's head tilted back and his arms weakened as the gurgling, coughing choking barked forward. And then it stopped. Tim fell limp. The short sword was shoved in to the hilt.
Rakanth rose swiftly, pulling free Tim's blade and sliding it into his belt as he retrieved his own large weapon of war.
The Drow looked up. The cavalry had all been slain and the survivors of that hundred, later found to be sixty eight, rushed to join the central conflict.
A ways from him was a single mercenary defending against two, sabre swinging. Rakanth stalked that way, drawing free Tim's short sword from his belt. Symmetric thrusts ran through the pair from the back. The surprised man he'd saved was young, perhaps twenty. It was a growing theme of these boy-men fighting and dying throughout this campaign. Maybe he was just too old. Tim's sword returned to his belt. "Come, boy."
Rakanth led the sabre wielding fighter back to the fray, where the Drow sliced through offending flesh without hesitation. The boy's sabre flashed and twirled, clearly outmatching his solitary opponent amidst the crowd. No death strike came. Rakanth's eyes narrowed, "Kill him!" The boy drew in a breath as he parried and sliced through vulnerable throat. Blood erupted. "Again!" The sabre stabbed deep as the boy mounted the fallen, relieving his guilt
and emotion by impaling the body again and again. The large hand of Rakanth shattered his trance, pulled him up to a stand and shoved him into the chaos again. The Drow went his own way, taking one life after another.
When the brutality had ended, the hired help was again victorious. They would camp upon the short mesa of dry land for the night and face the sun. Tomorrow, they would march again.
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From: rakanth@aol.com (Rakanth)
Date: 03 Jun 2000 16:04:52 EDT
The men were quietly bustling the eve after their second battle in their rakish camp. Rakanth wiped clean the gargantuan blade in his lap as the sun sunk to a candle's flicker at his back. His sable eyes peered sidelong at the cluster of men drinking away their day in mind-clogged laughter. They looked back at him with chuckles.
The decided leader pushed himself to a stand and, in near sobriety, made his way to the Drow--bottle in hand. "The Lion!" he called out in laughter. Rakanth's brow arched. The fighter in him urged him to stand, that should a conflict arise he'd be at a disadvantage. He looked to the mercenary's fur-carpeted face. If he had to, he could kill the human sitting down.
"That's what they call you, 'the Lion.' What do you make of that?"
Rakanth continued cleaning his blade.
"Because you hunt in battle. You don't fight. You're not here for the money. You're just looking to kill things. And hey," his hands lifted, "if that's what tickles you, I'm not going to argue. Just make sure I stay alive, eh?"
"I cannot guarantee that. We all may die." Rakanth's attention remained on Lorn'ku as he dragged the cloth over the weapon. The human man eyed it.
"Well, right. That's true. No lying in that. I mean, I could drop dead right now. No reason at all. And you could, too, you know. You're likely to die of pent of breath. Don't you ever enjoy yourself?"
"How many lives were ended early by your hand?" Rakanth looked up.
"A dozen, maybe. Why? It's what we do."
"Then how can you enjoy yourself just hours after that?" His eyes returned to Lorn'ku.
"Hey, that's war. Not murder. If you don't kill the guy across from you, he'll kill you. I have no guilt in that. Survival of the fittest. There's nothing wrong with surviving."
"Of course not. Drink up."
The human's eyes narrowed as he turned on the defensive, "Maybe you murder, but I don't! We're all just making a living here. You're no better than us."
"No, I'm not."
"Then what are you saying?"
Rakanth drew the short sword from his belt and tossed it to the man's feet. His voiced resonated its low timbre, "That sword was Tim's. Barely a man, he joined his nation's army, probably just before our war broke out. His mother probably cried when he left. His lover probably kissed him good bye and gave him a trinket to remember her. Then he arrived at his camp, where they trained him--in a way, and filled his mind with visions of glory. Sword in
hand, he marched into battle and dreamed of the parades they'd throw in his honor and what stories he'd tell his girl waiting back home. Not long after, I shoved that short sword into his chest and he died."
The human stepped back from the sword. "You can't think about that. You'll lose your mind."
"You must. It's what you do."
Shaken, the human turned and returned to his group. Rakanth slept sitting up. Tomorrow, they were fighting again and one of his men would have a harder time doing his job.
Date: 03 Jun 2000 16:04:52 EDT
The men were quietly bustling the eve after their second battle in their rakish camp. Rakanth wiped clean the gargantuan blade in his lap as the sun sunk to a candle's flicker at his back. His sable eyes peered sidelong at the cluster of men drinking away their day in mind-clogged laughter. They looked back at him with chuckles.
The decided leader pushed himself to a stand and, in near sobriety, made his way to the Drow--bottle in hand. "The Lion!" he called out in laughter. Rakanth's brow arched. The fighter in him urged him to stand, that should a conflict arise he'd be at a disadvantage. He looked to the mercenary's fur-carpeted face. If he had to, he could kill the human sitting down.
"That's what they call you, 'the Lion.' What do you make of that?"
Rakanth continued cleaning his blade.
"Because you hunt in battle. You don't fight. You're not here for the money. You're just looking to kill things. And hey," his hands lifted, "if that's what tickles you, I'm not going to argue. Just make sure I stay alive, eh?"
"I cannot guarantee that. We all may die." Rakanth's attention remained on Lorn'ku as he dragged the cloth over the weapon. The human man eyed it.
"Well, right. That's true. No lying in that. I mean, I could drop dead right now. No reason at all. And you could, too, you know. You're likely to die of pent of breath. Don't you ever enjoy yourself?"
"How many lives were ended early by your hand?" Rakanth looked up.
"A dozen, maybe. Why? It's what we do."
"Then how can you enjoy yourself just hours after that?" His eyes returned to Lorn'ku.
"Hey, that's war. Not murder. If you don't kill the guy across from you, he'll kill you. I have no guilt in that. Survival of the fittest. There's nothing wrong with surviving."
"Of course not. Drink up."
The human's eyes narrowed as he turned on the defensive, "Maybe you murder, but I don't! We're all just making a living here. You're no better than us."
"No, I'm not."
"Then what are you saying?"
Rakanth drew the short sword from his belt and tossed it to the man's feet. His voiced resonated its low timbre, "That sword was Tim's. Barely a man, he joined his nation's army, probably just before our war broke out. His mother probably cried when he left. His lover probably kissed him good bye and gave him a trinket to remember her. Then he arrived at his camp, where they trained him--in a way, and filled his mind with visions of glory. Sword in
hand, he marched into battle and dreamed of the parades they'd throw in his honor and what stories he'd tell his girl waiting back home. Not long after, I shoved that short sword into his chest and he died."
The human stepped back from the sword. "You can't think about that. You'll lose your mind."
"You must. It's what you do."
Shaken, the human turned and returned to his group. Rakanth slept sitting up. Tomorrow, they were fighting again and one of his men would have a harder time doing his job.