TALE - Brotherhood of Lions

[Sigismund229]

At blunt's suggestion, I've started a Shiban&Torghun style story for the Lions. I'm going to out everything I write for it here.

Abartach caught the sword in his unprotected ribcage, feeling it tear through skin and muscle until it got stuck between his bones. Laughing in triumph, Abartach brought up his own sword, cleaving his opponent apart, from collarbone to groin. Stepping back, he let his opponent fall down, his blood and entrails spilling out onto the grass. Grinning, he stepped back and laughed in triumph at the skies, feeling the rain's cold drops fall across his face and into his wounds. Like most getae he went into battle bare chested and covered in blue swirls, his eyes dyed red with henna root and his hair spiked. Not the wisest thing to do perhaps but it would grab the gods' attentions and perhaps earn their approval and aid. That was easily worth a few wounds.

Looking above himself, Abartach saw ravens circling, no doubt about to descend on the battlefield and take advantage of the rich pickings it offered and to carry the fallen warrior's souls to where the halls of the gods rested among the stars. Some may even be bound for the halls of Cuchaelos, Ruideithe. King of all the gods. There, they would feast alongside the greatest heroes of Mycenae, the High Kings of old, Kalgacus, even Cuchaelos himself, the Allfather, alongside whom they would have the honour of marching to war at the end of days.

The ravens would find rich pickings on this battlefield, Abartach concluded, letting his exhausted body drop to his knees. Bodies covered the ground as thickly as snow in winter, the blood of the wounded and the dying mixing together to turn the earth into a red-brown quagmire. Only a few warriors remained standing. Of those, three were now walking towards Abartach, murder in their eyes. No doubt they had picked him out due to the heavy gold torc that marked him as a prince of the Siluri.

Suddenly, Abartach felt his wounds keenly, the stinging pain tearing at his body every time he moved. His muscles ached from exhaustion. His sword felt heavy in his hands. The ravens must have sensed it too, as they began circling above Abartach. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up. If he was to die, it would be on his feet with a sword in his hand.

The first warrior came at him, swinging high with a blow aimed to decapitate Arbatach ducked low and sliced open the warriors belly. However, as he rose up, a second warriors sword met him, slicing upwards across his leg, opening up an enormous wound in Abartach's thigh. With blood cascading out of it, Abartach's leg gave way beneath him and he went down onto a knee, lifting his sword to block the inevitable downward slash to his head. However, the force of the blow knocked the sword out of his hand. Looking up, Abartach saw the two warriors standing over him. Seeing approval and respect in their eyes, Abartach bared his throat. Nodding in understanding, one of them lifted his sword, ready to thrust it down through Abartach's neck and into his heart.

"Stay your blade" rumbled a voice behind Abartach. In front of him, the two warriors fell to their knees and bowed their heads, holding their swords up in supplication. Glancing over his shoulder, Abartach saw a giant in crimson and white plate walking towards him. He was tall and broad, taller and broader than any man Arbatach had ever seen. Yet despite his apparent bulk, he trod carefully, respectfully, avoiding stepping on any of the bodies that littered the ground. His face was covered in swirling red and blue tattoos and he had a long, straight scar running from just underneath his eye to his chin. He had a long, drooping moustache and his long red hair blew behind him in the wind.

Eventually, he arrived in front of Abartach. Gesturing for the two warriors to rise, he said "You have fought well. Your tribe should be proud. Now leave us". Nodding their thanks, the two warriors rose and left. It was only now that the giant stood next to them that his sheer size sunk in. Neither of the warriors had been small and yet they both looked like children when compared to this giant.

As the warriors left, the giant turned to Abartach and crouched down in an attempt to put his eyes on the same level as Abartach's. He was still at least a head taller than Abartach when crouched as low as he could. "How many winters have you seen?" he asked.

Meeting his grey eyes, Abartach found that for a moment he couldn't speak but finally forced the words "Nine".

Standing, the giant muttered " Thirteen Terran. Not too old yet". Then, looking back down at Abartach and smiling he said "You downed at least a dozen full grown warriors. You're a born warrior". Abartach grinned. His father had often told him that his family were descended from Abartach's namesake, the Allfather's son and a peerless warrior. "What is your name?" the giant asked.

"Abartach"

Nodding, the giant said "After the Allfather's son. It suits you" then he began walking off into the distance and said "Come with me".

" Why?" Abartach asked "I cannot stand properly".

"Then I will leave you behind for the crows" the giant replied, never slowing for a second. Abartach didn't even think for a second before he began to run after the giant as quickly as his wounded and aching body would allow.

Edited December 1, 2017 by Lord Thørn

[Sigismund229]

Rain slashed down. Guthmundr Horiksson looked up at the sky and cursed it. Looking around, none of the other recruits looked happy at standing out in the cold and rain and many were starting to shiver. Most, like Guthmundr, were solidly built enough and used enough to being cold and wet for it to not bother them. Looking at his fellow recruits, Guthmundr noted that most had the looks of Albyon and Jurfik, the birthplace of the III^rd legion. However, there were a few lost looking recruits who had the charcoal coloured skin of the southern regions of Terra and others with the dark, swarthy looks of the Achamaenid territories. Those not from Albyon were suffering the worst of the weather Guthmundr noted.

 

In front of them, a legionary of the Crimson Lions stood immobile in his dark red and white armour, looking out at them through his helm's cold blue lenses. He'd had them standing there for three hours as they got soaked by the rain and buffeted by the wind. Now, for the first time in those three hours, he moved, raising his arms to disengage his helm's seals, lifting the helm from his head. He had a long, straight scars underneath his left eye which was the same grey-green colour as most Mycenaeans. Both his hair and beard were dyed a platinum blonde, with the roots left dark. He had red and blue tattoos across most of his face.

 

"You've passed the first stage of your training and been accepted as potential recruits for the Crimson Lions" he called out. To all intents and purposes, his Gothic was perfect, accentless save for the strange, almost musical, lilting quality to it that all Mycenaeans had when speaking Gothic. It sounded strange to Guthmundr's Terran ears. "But that means nothing!" the legionary continued. "We shall now find out who are truly fit to join our ranks. We'll start with something easy. Run around the obstacle course for as long as you can. I don't want speed, I want endurance. You either keep going until I deem that you've run for long enough or you drop out and accept that you lack the physical endurance to become a legionary".

 

Grinning, Guthmundr started sprinting along with the rest of the recruits. While the aim was endurance, they all wanted to impress the legionary and so they all ran as fast as they could. First one round, then two, then a third. Eventually, Guthmundr stopped counting how many times he'd run the obstacle course. The first recruits to drop out were those who had sustained some injury in the original trials. Next to go were those who'd let themselves go numb from the cold. The rest kept going through sheer bloody minded determination.

 

Guthmundr's lungs felt raw and bloody but still he kept going. His feet were sore from the constant pounding on the ground and his leg muscles ached with exhaustion. He tripped once when jumping over an obstacle and landed badly, twisting his ankle. Despite his ankle feeling as if it was on fire, he kept staggering on. Eventually, the Mycenaean called out a stop.

 

Guthmundr's legs felt like they were about to give way beneath him. His lungs felt like they were on fire and filling up with boiling blood and his ankle burned with agony. What he could see had narrowed down to a tunnel directly in front of him. Eventually he found himself opposite another recruit, by the looks of him another denizen of Jurfik. Then he heard the Mycenaean's voice. "Now we'll see what your fighting skills are like. Fight the recruit opposite you". Looking at his feet, Guthmundr saw that there was a sword and shield placed in front of them. Swaying like a drunk, Guthmundr knelt to pick them up. Then he just stared at them dumbly, noticing that the sword was sharp. His opponent did much the same and evidently all the other recruits were just as dumbstruck as the Mycenaean called out again " Fight! Otherwise none of you will be accepted into the legion". That brought fresh strength into Guthmundr's limbs. He would become a legionary or he would die in the attempt.

 

With adrenaline flooding into his system, the pain in his lungs and ankle didn't seem so bad now. They seemed bearable. The sword and shield didn't seem as heavy as they had a few moments ago. Raising theirs shields and their swords into a guarded posture, Guthmundr and his opponent began to circle each other. His opponent moved first, lunging forwards with a thrust. Guthmundr sidestepped, allowing his opponents momentum to carry him too far forwards and then Guthmundr punched his sword's guard into his opponent's face, breaking his nose. Not allowing his opponent time to recover, Guthmundr pressed the attack, punching his shield boss into his opponent's belly and following up with a slash across his back.

 

Once he'd drawn blood, Guthmundr felt a bloodlust wash over him, consuming any mercy he might once have had. He kept attacking, swinging his sword down again and again. His opponent blocked every single one and got back up from where he'd lain on the ground. Then he smashed a rock he'd found on the ground into Guthmundr's temple, creating a bloody gash and knocking Guthmundr to the ground. Guthmundr responded on instinct, knocking his opponents legs out from under him. However, shocked out of his bloodthirst by the pain of his injuries, he just stood over his opponent, staring at his terrified face as he lay on the ground. No matter how hard he tried, Guthmundr couldn't bring himself to deliver the final blow. This boy was a recruit just like him. They could have been brothers in arms had they not been pitted against one another.

 

"Kill him" came the Mycenaean's voice at his shoulder. Guthmundr still couldn't bring himself to do it. "Go on" came the Mycenaean's voice again. "Finish him". Closing his eyes, Guthmundr muttered "I'm sorry" and swung his sword, feeling it connect and hearing a brief scream, cut mercifully short. When he opened his eyes again, Guthmundr saw an armoured leg in front of him. Looking up he was gazing into the eyes of the Mycenaean who then crouched down and placed a hand on Guthmundr's shoulder. He then said "You won but couldn't kill him as he could have been your brother. That is good. But you're going to need to be able to kill and kill because for no reason other than they're the enemy, as you had to do here. It's better that you are forced to do it early than hesitate later. Never hesitate".