Odenhall Stories: Gladniir in the Mezca

Gladniir shouldered his great sword and headed south towards where the battle raged on. Tonight would be his fifth venture into the deep swamps of the Mezca and in-fighting between Marshers from Odenhall and Marshers from the outlying counties continued.

It had all began when the Count of Odenhall claimed he would begin an expansionist crusade outside of the Mezca. The smaller and wilder towns on the outskirts of the Marshlands protested fiercely; they feared what an industrialist generation of Marsher would mean for their people as a whole. Not only that, they feared the expected Hadji retaliation to a massive expansion.

The hardy Baegan mercenary had been hired on by the Count as a third unit enforcer; a relatively mid-level rank in the non-aligned group of men who fought for gold, not feeling, or commitment to state. Originally he had been assigned to a battle troupe defending the outer city gates with the rest of the Count’s hired mercs, but when his reckless fighting techniques and lack of disciplined form caused the deaths of four of his comrades, he was sent to the Guerilla Unit. Once he arrived at his new station in the marsh, however, he quickly abandoned his post and chose to fight by himself.

The Count, if he even heard of Gladniir’s abandonment, would care not; as long as the Baegan fought valiantly for the gold he would receive, Count Haborshmad didn’t worry about who he fought with. Haborshmad thought his gold was well spent if his mercs were out in the marshes causing havoc and chaos while his Regulars kept to the rank and file.

As he approached the battle, he off-handedly thought up a plan for attack. Normally he would charge in like a bat-out-of-hell, howling to Baeg for strength, cleaving heads from shoulders like nobodies business, but this was a large scale attack he was heading into. The Count’s Regulars had pushed the Field Marshers (or so the county folk now called themselves) to the Mezca Marshlands/Candarian boarder and the presently civil war was about to become international. Apparently, a Candarian emissary had spoken to Haborshmad about the direction the Regulars were heading in, which was dangerously close to the border. Haborshmad, smug as he is, told the emissary to not stick his whiskered nose where it didn’t belong; as far as the Count was concerned, as long as the fighting remained at least three hundred feet from the border (according to international law), it was still considered a civil war. Never mind his intentions after he silenced the uprising.

But all this didn’t really matter to Gladniir in the end; he was, after all, just here for the gold. The night previous, he had decided that he was not interested in sticking around for the end of this bloody campaign; a couple more engagements and he would have enough gold in his wallet to enjoy a couple months of quiet nights and easy mornings. Well, as quiet as a night can be when you spend it guzzling booze with loose women in northern Hamsfleidt. For as much as the Baegan enjoyed fighting and bloodletting, he was getting old and he could feel it in his limbs.

Concentrating his thoughts on the upcoming battle, because he did realize he was continuously getting sidetracked in his musings, he hatched out a plan. The Regulars were fighting the Field Marshers from the south, holding out until a battalion of Guerillas came in from the east to mess things up while the Regulars caught their breathe. Gladniir figured he would wait for the Guerillas to make their appearance, then slip in from the west to hopefully blindside a unit or two of the enemy’s worst. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a stronger unit by himself, but he was missing a meal or two and a couple of nights of sleep; needless to say, the merc wasn’t at his peak on this day.

A horn sounded from the rear of the Regulars and they began to retreat, archers and crossbowman covering them as they did so. The Field Marshers roared in triumph, the damn poor souls, and gave chase. Gladniir did respect these country folk, for not only did they have more skill than he would have thought, but their courage and resilience while fighting large scale surpassed that of even the Count’s Regulars. Of course, get any of them one on one and they will hightail it to safety, but that was okay; wars were not fought by one man.

They had almost closed on the retreating Regulars, and maybe Gladniir did hope they would catch them, when the Guerillas came whooping from the trees. They’re crazed advance was not supported with bows or bolts, but javelins and indeed whole spears, long enough to gore not one man, but two or three. Most of the mercs were Baegans, for it had been years since the warriors of Hamsfleidt had engaged anyone in a war of their own, but those who did not hail from the northern country were just as skilled. It was even said that Haborshmad had found a man of Okiiki origin; someone who could wield an axe as large as Gladniir himself and who could bend the forces of magic to boot. This was mostly a rumor spread about by the Regulars, however, who were too proud of Odenhall to realize that the Mezca Marshlands was an incredibly poor country. Even if there was an Okiik mixed in with the mercs, he would be no stronger or mentally adept than any of the others.

For a second, Gladniir almost missed his opportunity as he watched the Guerillas in action, but, he collected himself and quietly approached the turned backs of a green looking unit of spearmen. They would probably yield a few easy kills; the shafts of their spears were wooden and would prove easy enough for the merc’s heavy iron sword to hew through.

Indeed, the battle started out comfortably enough, with Gladniir hastily dispatching the first man with a smack on the head with his sword’s pommel. Skull cracked against the well-shaped stone of his old sword’s hilt and the grizzled merc barked a laugh of content. The rest of the unit soon realized there was an enemy in their midst and began to change form accordingly.

“Enemy swordsman behind! Shields up boys, let’s keep this bastard at–,” the apparent leader began. “Bay?! Ha, ye dogs don’t know the meanin’!” Cleaving through the captain’s soft neck before he could raise his shield, Gladniir roared to Baeg.

“Ye see,” parrying a spear, he clipped the head off, rendering the weapon useless. “A bay is a large body of water!” Gladniir jumped forwards and dug his toes in the soft, swampy ground, stopping suddenly. Using the stolen momentum, he used it to thrust his sword forward like one of his foe’s weapons. The motion blasted the shield out of the hands of one of the Field Marshers and sent the sword continuing through to appear on the other side of his belly. The Marsher looked deep into Gladniir’s eyes as blood gurgled out of his mouth as he attempted a last word. The Baegan wouldn’t allow it and whipped the sword out of his enemy’s stomach; the force brought the man crumpling forward to lie dead on his face.

Only two of the original five now stood to face Gladniir and he could plainly see that fear gripped them as if they were two Candarian babes and he the Master of Cataclysm. They looked from the blood drenched warrior to themselves and the one on the right took a step back.

“Aye, ye best be doin’ so, I think.” He wiped sweat and dirt from his face. “’Less you wish to turn out like them,” he spat on the captain’s decapitated head. He really didn’t want them running off and spewing whatever they wished about the sword swinger cleaving up the company’s flank, so he did exactly what he knew would keep them about. Marshers as a whole are fairly proud, for whatever reason, especially these country folk. Spitting on a fallen comrade and poking fun at their cowardice was about the best thing anyone could do to start a fight with a Marsher, no matter what part of the Mezca they hailed from.

The cur that had backed up was now brandishing his spear at Gladniir and his comrade emitted a mostly pathetic growl. Now that the element of surprise had all but been used up, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder posed a decently difficult fight. It wouldn’t be anything the merc couldn’t handle of course, but the last thing he wanted to do was push his luck this far into the campaign. Shrugging at the both of them, he slammed his great sword into the soft mud where it stood quivering. As expected, this surprised the Marshers long enough for Gladniir to un-strap his boot knife and send it flying into the jugular of the man on the right.

A pang of guilt rushed into the Baegan as he watched the man slowly slip to the ground as he held his ally’s and obvious friend’s arm. The luckier of the two cried out in pain for his brother in arms and held him closely as he breathed his last. Gladniir allowed for this moment of departure, standing by his sword for the man to send his friend into the beyond. Before he could finish, however, another horn blew from behind: the Guerillas had had their fill and now it was time for the Regulars to finish the fight. He didn’t cause as much harm as he originally hoped, but it was time for him to leave regardless; with the withdrawal of all of the other chaotic fighters, he would stick out like a sore thumb.

With a wink, Gladniir lifted his sword out of the mud and fled off into the woods. It no longer mattered whether the Field Marsher went to the rest of his company with news of the Baegan being there; he would be long gone before they had time to organize a force for his capture. Just as he reached the tree line, however, the unthinkable happened: a Field Marsher bolt struck him through the shoulder. Gladniir slowed his pace and almost tripped to the ground, but, after a quick glance back, kept running. The man who had shot him, which happened to be the man whose life he spared, was loading up another shot. It wouldn’t take the Marsher long to finish cranking the bolt into place and if Gladniir was still out in the open when that happened, he would soon lie dead on the field.

Another glance over his shoulder revealed that the Marsher was taking aim on the fleeing merc. Without a second thought, Gladniir dove forward into the mud. As he did so, he heard the whizzing of a projectile overhead; two seconds slower and he would now have a long, slender piece of wood sticking out of the back of his head. Not stopping to think of the possibility of death, the merc stood up and began a zigzagged run. He figured the Marsher had probably just gotten lucky with that last shot and that he really just wielded a crossbow with mediocre skill. He not only assumed this to be true, but also prayed dearly to Baeg that it was.

As he sharply cut back to the left, Gladniir stubbed his toe on a jagged stone; an action that sent him stumbling forward. He was able to keep his balance through the ordeal and he later came to appreciate the fact that the stone had just saved his life. If he had not stumbled forward, the third bolt that had been fired would be resting in his lower spine, not his right calf. The pain of its entry almost brought him to his knees, but he was steps away from the tree line and he continued on. Taking one last look at the Marsher, he was pleased to see that the man did not load up a forth bolt; he knew he had been beat. Gladniir would live to fight again.

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