Chapter 1300: Not like anything(1)
The sun had finally broken through the midday clouds, a rare and welcome reprieve after a whole nasty week of biting rain and miserable, windy days. It was nice for Torghan to feel the warm rays of the sun directly on his weathered skin once again, even if the air still carried the damp chill of the river’s lands.
He misliked this southern land, truth laid bare. It was too rainy, and he always found himself forced to aggressively scrape the wet mud from the soles of his leather boots every single night before going to sleep; otherwise, the filth would get all caked up by the morning after, becoming twice the pain in the ass to walk in.
He misliked the local people too. Up north in Yarzat, you would always have traveling merchants coming across their tribal settlements with interesting wares and exotic goods to trade. Whenever their Voghondai warriors marched through the countryside to answer the call to arms or to patrol the king’s highways as was their duty, the villagers they came across were usually kind enough to offer a sturdy roof over a man’s head for the night and a hot dinner to warm his bones. It was a nice, respectful way to live.
Of course, not all was perfectly good up north. There was also the annoying fact of the pristine temples of the Star that the southern-born Queen had insisted on building near their traditional settlements. Even though many of his tribe’s fiercest warriors deeply misliked the sight of those foreign spires, the builders had come with the King’s explicit permission and protection, so none dared to do anything foolish to the stone.
The same went for the priests themselves; those men with their long, sweeping garbs usually limited their duties to just preaching to the few who actively wished to convert, never bothering a good Voghondai more than a firm shake of his head and a hard glare couldn’t quickly resolve.
People in Yarzat were very much like their weather, sunny, content, and generally happy. And why shouldn’t they be? Things were undeniably good up there under the Golden man’s shadow.
Here in the defeated lands of rivers, however, the people were entirely sour, bitter, and profoundly mistrustful. The local priests were the absolute worst part of them. The holy men were constantly clutching their silver stars whenever the brave tribal warriors passed through the mud roads of the refugee camp, making a ridiculous ruckus whenever it was time for the rations to be distributed, shouting nonsense about heretics and launching into loud, weeping preaching.
Though that particular nuisance had proven easy enough to deal with; one arrogant priest thoroughly beaten with a sturdy ash wood stick had been quite enough to quiet all the others. Yet, the mistrustful, stinky eyes they continuously received from the surviving Oizenians remained.
"The vanquished keep their heads far too high; they ought to be shortened of a neck," Lixo had muttered just yesterday when one of the local holy men had come bothering him about salvation, hellfire, and all that southern shit.
Lixo had spoken the words plainly in the common tongue, and even if he hadn’t, the terrifying sight of the massive Voghondai standing there with a heavy battle-axe resting carelessly in his hand was more than enough to get the exact point across to the priest.
Still, the King’s complex political meaning may have eluded them, but Torghan had to wholeheartedly agree with Lixo’s sentiment. The King of Yarzat had been far too lenient, far too merciful with these broken people. Torghan simply could not fathom showing such soft kindness to a population that had been your mortal enemy a season ago.
They had actively tried to kill his people in the valley, and now the King was spending his own treasury to feed them in camps. Yet, instead of getting down on their knees and weeping with gratitude for the immense generosity, most of these stubborn bastards had the sheer stones to look offended by the handouts.
Whatever roughness and hot-headedness Lixo possessed, he had got one fundamental thing right: they ought to have cut a few heads off right at the start just to teach the survivors proper respect. Sometimes love and loyalty could only be successfully given after the hard rod had broken the spirit.
Standing a full four feet up in the air atop a makeshift wooden watchtower, Torghan stood silently overlooking the dense perimeter of the forest. He found it remarkably strange that the soft people of the South tended to view the ancient woods, lands overflowing with game, life, and useful plantsl, as something inherently haunted or cursed. To a Voghondai, a forest was simply where a man went to get good food and dry wood for his fires.
Three-quarters of the fresh meat their camp caught came right out of those trees, either pulled from clever rope traps or brought down by direct hunting parties. From up here on the platform, Torghan could see nothing moving within the green canopy. Not a single squirrel nor a larger animal shifted the brush; all that his sharp eyes could discern was the rolling top of the forest and a few black birds soaring lazily in the grey sky. Nothing else moved. Not a single other sign of life.
Somehow, the disciplined soldiers of the Fourth Legion the Voghondai had been paired with to protect and police the sprawling refugee camp, did not find that absolute stillness reassuring. They kept their hands resting nervously on the pommels of their swords and maces staring into the treeline as if an army were about to materialize from the leaves.
Torghan, of course, could understand why they trembled. The southern people were excellent farmers, brilliant merchants, and even passably good soldiers when properly arrayed in a shield-wall, but they were not good hunters, nor did they possess the instincts of true trackers. They looked at the wild woods and saw only shadows and ghosts and witches.
But to Torghan, that tactical weakness was a beautiful thing. If the Southerners were perfectly good at absolutely everything, what real need would the King have of anyone else? What desperate need would the kingdom have of his people?
Still, it was about time to show these southron soft-skins exactly why the King kept the Voghondai on his ledger.
"Vilen!" Torghan called out, jumping down from the wooden watchtower.
By the time his boots hit the damp earth, his lieutenant was already on his feet, waiting. Vilen’s hair was long, black, and aggressively greased back into a tight ponytail, a sleek style that had become all the rage up in Yarzat for the local boys who grew their manes long. Vilen had taken a bizarre fancy to the look during the War and had stubbornly worn it ever since, completely ignoring the rest of the tribe who constantly mocked him, claiming the look made his massive widow’s peak look like a bird’s beak.
"Yes, Chief?" Vilen grunted, his voice sounding like gravel spinning in a bucket.
Torghan looked up at the sky. The sun was out, and the gods only knew when the next time they’d see the damn thing would be. "Assemble ten recruits and three of the veterans. They are going to scour the deep woods today. I want them armed, rationed, and ready to march by the turn of the hour."
The commanders of the Fourth Legion were always whining about how local outlaws and desperate bandits preferred to make their camps deep within the tree-ridden valleys. It made practical sense, Torghan supposed. If I were a lawless piece of shit fleeing the King’s justice, I’d use the thickest canopy to hunt my meat and hide my hide from the lords and their armored patrols. Furthermore, this miserable refugee camp he was currently tasked with policing bordered the forest directly. If a hostile force was going to launch a sudden raid, just like those bleeding disasters that had shattered the northern camps, it would come screaming out from these very trees.
And if nothing else, a march through the brush would let them check on the meat traps they had set the previous morning.
"Aye, Chief," Vilen said, spitting into the mud. "But who’s going to lead the pack?"
"Me." He had been lazying around for too long...
Vilen snorted, crossing his thick arms over his leather vest. "Some of the elders would say that a Voghondai chieftain is of far more use staying right here, directing the other warriors and keeping the stinky-eyes in line."
"Well, those elders best not say that shit where the chieftain can hear them," Torghan snapped, adjusting the heavy weapon-belt at his hip. "This chief in particular is dying to feel some actual action. I’ve been lingering around this mud-hole doing fuck-all for far too long. When the King called for my axe to help deal with the Vulture Lord’s leftovers, I thought that would have entailed a hell of a lot more blood than handing out bowls of turnip broth to weeping widows."
"Didn’t we all, Chief?We all got pampered on blood..." Vilen shrugged, his dark eyes scanning the treeline. "But I’d still say it’s better for our chieftain to stay safe, dry, and warm by the fire. Let someone else take the brunt of the march. Like me. This isn’t a grand battle, just a tedious scouting mission in the wet grass. No one’s going to call you a coward if you sit this one out."
"You?" Torghan looked his lieutenant up and down, his eyes narrowing. "I was already against your ass volunteering for patrol duty in the first place. You’ve got a newborn son squawking in your tent. Did you really need to leave your woman alone so soon just to go look at trees?You have got nothing to prove"
"If the spirits take me, the tribe takes care of both the child and the wife." Vilen replied flatly, his rough demeanor unyielding. "They did the exact same for me when I was an orphan boy begging for scraps, didn’t they?And look how well I came out!"
Torghan let out a long, heavy sigh. As much as he valued having his best fighter at his flank, he would have infinitely preferred for the fool to stay safe inside the fortified settlement. It was one thing to risk your life in a proper, glorious war in direct service to your King; it was another thing entirely for garrison duty that promised nothing but wet socks and potential blood for zero glory. Still, this was Torghan’s heavy duty to the Yarzat crown, so he had to march. Vilen? The idiot had a choice.
And he chose badly.
"Speaking of tents and screaming women," Vilen continued, a wicked, annoying grin suddenly breaking across his rugged face as he leaned in. "When the hell are you going to stop hiding behind your chieftain’s mantle and actually think about marrying? The tribe needs lines, and your bed has been cold for three winters.We have got your nephew true, but he is young and spirits forbid if something happen to the both of you, it will get stinky with the crown."
Torghan instantly stiffened, an intense, visible discomfort washing over his broad features.
There was some talk...
"Mind your own godsdamn business, Vilen," the chief grumbled, his ears turning a slight shade of red.
"Oh, so there is a woman," Vilen barked with a rough, delighted laugh. "Come on, Chief. Spill it. Is she one of ours, or have you taken a fancy to one of these soft, weeping southron things?"
"Shut your trap," Torghan muttered, looking around to ensure none of the regular legionaries were listening in on their business. "If you must know... the King himself has been in private talks with some of the high lords down here. Some political nonsense about securing a wedding between me and one of their noble-born daughters."
Vilen’s jaw practically dropped into the mud, his ponytail shaking as he blinked in utter shock. "A lord’s daughter? You? They’ll have you wearing silk doublets and drinking sweet wine out of silver cups, Chief! When did the king tell you this?"
"Weeks ago," Torghan said dryly, turning away to hide his face. "He mentioned it in a letter in passing, and I haven’t heard a single word about it since. I don’t know how deep they are in the talks, and frankly, I hope they call the whole thing off.
I don’t like them southren girls, too soft.
Moreover, the thought of sitting at a high table trying to learn their manners scares me more than an Oizenian shield-wall."
He snapped his head back toward Vilen, his expression returning to its usual, terrifying hardness. "Now, enough of your hens’ cackling. Gather the men, sharpen the steel, and meet me at the western gate in twenty minutes. If we’re going to get ambushed by outlaws, I’d rather it happen while the sun is still hitting my face.It is a sad thing to die under the moon’s light."
But alas as many things were on that cursed land, it was not be.